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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF. CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


SPANISH  WAYS  AND  BY-WAYS 


WITH 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  PYRENEES 


BY 

WILLIAM  HOWE  DOWNES 
K 


ILLUSTRATED 


BOSTON 
CUPPLES,  UPHAM  &  COMPANY 

©10  Corner  Bookstore 
1883 


COPYRIGHT,  1883. 
BY  CUPPLES,  UPHAM  &  Co. 


PRESS  OF 
STANLEY  AND  USHER, 

BOSTON. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

I.  —  INTRODUCTORY 

II.  — PARIS  TO  BURGOS J5 

III.  — BURGOS 

IV.  —  FIRST  BULL-FIGHT 32 

V.  —  BURGOS  TO  MADRID 46 

VI.  — MADRID 49 

VII.  — THE  PICTURE-GALLERY 

VIII.  — MADRID  TO  SEVILLE 

IX.  — SEVILLE 7$ 

X.  — PICTURES  IN  SEVILLE 91 

XL  — SEVILLE  TO  GRANADA 97 

XII.  — THE  SEVEN*  FLOORS IO1 

XIII.  — THE  ALHAMBRA,  WITH  A  LEGEND 109 

XIV.  — GRANADA II9 

XV.  — CORDOVA I25 

XVI.  — BACK  IN  THE  CAPITAL r3° 

XVII.  — THE  ESCORIAL J35 

XVIII.  —  LITERATURE  OF  THE  BULL-RING 140 

XIX.  — BAYONNE,  BIARRITZ,  AND  PAU 15° 

XX.  — PAU  TO  EAUX-BONNES J59 

XXL  —  EAUX-BONNES l65 

XXII.  —  EAUX-CHAUDES l69 

XXIII.  —  THE  PLATEAU  OF  BIOUS-ARTIGUES 177 


M309198 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


A  PICADOR  (Frontispiece) Drawn  by  Henry  Sandham. 

(After  a  photograph  of  the  painting  by  Villegas.) 

THE  PUEKTA  DEL  VINO        Drawn  by  Marcus  Waterman. 

Page  1 08. 

A  BIT  ix  Li:s  EAUX-BONXES Drawn  by  A.  H.  Bicknell. 

Page  164. 

DRAWINGS By  A.  H.  Bicknell. 

Pages  9,  17,  19,  47,  57,  71,  74,' 85,  88,  90,  99,  IQI,  no,  113,  118,  135,  138,  159, 
169,  171,  175,  178,  and  182. 

DRAWINGS By  Henry  Sandham. 

Pages  30,  35,  117,  and  162. 

DRAWINGS By  Marcus  Waterman. 

Pages  23,  37,  42,  43,  72,  76,  77,  80,  8a,  89,  91,  97,  102,  104,  107,  119,  125, 
127,  133,  and  140. 

DRAWINGS By  W.  P.  Bodfish. 

Pages  31,  45,  49,  55,  78,  124,  130,  132,  and  149. 

DESIGN  FOR  COVER Drawn  by  George  R.  Halm. 


CHAPTER  I. 

INTRODUCTORY. 


I  LOVE  the  South.    The  people 
there  are  lazy,  —  true  ;  they  are 
shiftless,  —  yes  ;    they    are    im- 
moral, —  let  us  admit   it  ;    there 
is  dirt  and  decay  in  the  place  of  cleanli- 
ness and  growth,  stagnation  where  there 
should  be  progress  !     Well,  in  spite  of  all 
these  dreadful  things,  I  love  the  southern 
lands.     Why?     I  hardly  know.     Perhaps 
I  have  a  sneaking  sympathy  for  laziness, 
and  immorality,  and  dirt,  and  decay.    Some 
of  us  need  to  learn  how  to  be  idle  grace- 
fully.     The  Andalusians  will,  I   am  sure, 
teach  such  a  lesson  in  a  most  unconscious 
way  to  any  wayfarer  who  happens  along. 

The  Salon  was  about  to  close  ;  Paris  was  becoming 
dull,  comparatively  speaking  ;  it  happens  to  the  best 
of  Americans  to  get  tired  of  Paris  sometimes.  We 
had  "done"  the  town  quite  thoroughly.  (I  have 
heard  of  a  tourist  who  said,  "  We  done  Rome,  when 
we  was  there  before.")  What  had  we  seen  ?  Well, 
Prudhon,  as  Bellac,  in  "  Le  Monde  ou  Ton  s'ennuie," 
with  his  "au  dela"  and  his  delicious  theory  of  Platonic 


io  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

love  ;  and  Samary*  the  Pretty,  as  Suzanne  ;  Krauss,  as 
Hermosa,  in  the  "  Tribut  de  Zamora,"  which,  begging 
M.  Gounod's  pardon,  will  never  stir  the  roots  of  the 
spectator's  hair  as  much  as  one  simple  little  melody  in 
"  Faust."  Then  there  was  the  "  Huguenots,"  mounted 
as  I  have  never  seen  an  opera  mounted  before  or 
since ;  I  remember  particularly  the  scene  of  the  second 
act,  representing  the  castle  and  gardens  of  Chenon- 
ceaux,  with  an  immense  perspective,  where  a  river 
winds  away  through  the  distant  landscape  which  lies 
there  under  a  flood  of  daylight  and  stretches  leagues 

away :  — 

"  O  beau  pays  de  la  Touraine, 
Riants  jardins,  verte  fontaine, 
Ruisseau  qui  murmures  a  peine, 
Que  sur  tes  bords  j'aime  a  rever." 

We  had  also  seen  the  "  Hamlet "  of  M.  Thomas, 
with  a  ballet.  Fancy  the  operatic  Hamlet  (it  was 
M.  Faure)  singing  his  soliloquy  at  the  audience,  and 
then  contemplating  with  rapture  a  splendid  ballet. 

Better  than  all  these  diversions,  —  better  than  the 
tiresome  Salon,  with  its  sensational  and  clap-trap 
torture-chamber  scenes,  its  studio-model  goddesses  of 
pagandom,  its  acres  of  idealess  canvases  ten  feet 
by  fourteen,  —  memory  recalls  with  ever-increasing 
pleasure  certain  rainy  afternoons  passed  in  the  Louvre. 
Furthermore,  we  had  breakfasted  at  that  incompar- 
able restaurant  on  the  terrace  of  Saint  Germain  ;  we 

*  She  will  never  again  be  photographed  while  smiling;  for  in  this  country  they  have  utilized 
her  portrait  in  an  advertisement  of  somebody's  tooth-powder. 


Introductory.  1 1 

had  strolled  about  over  the  airy  hill  of  Saint  Cloud  ; 
we  had  passed  at  least  three  delightful  evenings  at 
the  Besselievre  open-air  concerts. 

And  one  balmy  evening,  as  we  sat  smoking  our 
Manilas,  on  a  certain  quaint  stone  balcony  looking 
down  into  a  great  paved  court,  Hermano  said :  — 

"  Let 's  go  to  Spain  !  " 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  the  subject  had  been 
broached.  We  had  been  devouring  books  about 

£> 

Spain  for  a  month  ;  but  each  time  that  the  project  was 
discussed  it  was  gravely  decided  not  to  go  to  Spain. 
The  folly  of  going  there  in  midsummer  was  pointed 
out  to  us ;  we  realized  the  objections,  but  the  idea 
would  not  be  dismissed.  It  was  a  case  of  "  now  or 
never,"  or  we  chose  so  to  consider  it.  There  are  so 
few  untrodden  paths  now  left  in  Europe,  that  Spain, 
which  looks  compact  and  accessible  on  the  map,  offers 
no  small  temptation  to  the  traveler  who  unreasonably 
desires  to  get  out  of  the  beaten  track.  One  supposes 
that  more  or  less  French  and  English  is  spoken  every- 
where nowadays — but  don't  suppose  so,  reader.  Ex- 
cept in  Madrid,  the  traveler  may  have  his  choice 
between  Spanish  or  the  language  of  deaf-mutes.  Do 
not  go  to  Spain  unless  you  know  the  lingo.  It  is  a 
very  beautiful  language,  but  no  language  sounds  well 
to  him  who  does  not  understand  it.  The  dearth  of 
French-speaking  and  English-speaking  natives  would 
not  be  so  awkward  a  circumstance  if  a  good  guide- 
book existed.  The  Joanne  handbooks  published  by 


12  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

Hachette  of  Paris,  and  Murray's  "  Spain,"  edited  by 
Ford,  are  faulty  and  untrustworthy  in  many  particu- 
lars. Baedecker,  the  best  guidebook-maker  in  the 
world,  has  not  included  Spain  in  his  series,  a  fact 
which  is  often  lamented  by  travelers  in  that  country, 
and  with  good  cause.  The  lack  of  a  good  guidebook 
becomes  a  real  misfortune  in  a  land  almost  destitute 


of  good  hotels,  and  until  within  a  very  few  years  with- 
out any  of  the  most  ordinary  "  modern  improvements." 
It  is  no  easy  undertaking  to  lay  out  a  route  through 
Spain  which  takes  in  all  the  interesting  points,  without 
involving  more  or  less  doubling  on  your  own  tracks. 
Granada,  for  instance,  is  a  cul-de-sac,  and  there  is  but 
one  way  of  getting  into  or  out  of  it  by  rail.  In  the 
absence  of  a  trustworthy  guidebook,  the  following 
itinerary  may  be  found  interesting  if  not  useful  to 


Introductory.  \  3 

those  contemplating  a  short  trip  on  the  Peninsula : 
Bayonne,  Vittoria,  Burgos,  Valladolid,  Madrid,  Toledo, 
Cordova,  Seville,  Cadiz,  Gibraltar,  Malaga,  Granada, 
Alicante,  Valencia,  Barcelona,  Perpignan.  This  is 
substantially  the  route  we  laid  out  before  leaving  Paris, 
but  the  heat  was  so  overpowering,  that  it  was  materi- 
ally abridged,  and  the  surplus  time  thereby  gained 
was  devoted  to  a  run  through  the  Lower  Pyrenees. 
This  route  is  all  rail  as  far  as  Cadiz,  and  involves  sev- 
eral days  of  steamboat  travel  on  the  Mediterranean 
between  Malaga  and  Barcelona.  It  would  be  found 
long  enough  and  comprehensive  enough  by  most 
travelers.  To  be  sure,  it  leaves  out  Saragossa,  Sego- 
via, Ronda,  and  Cartagena.  When  the  new  route 
from  France  under  the  Pyrenees  shall  have  been 
completed,  an  entirely  new  plan  of  campaign  will  be 
made  possible,  and  the  Spanish  tour,  now  becoming  so 
popular  among  the  French,  may  be  accomplished  with 
greater  ease  and  economy.  At  present  it  is  idle  to 
deny  that  a  "  pleasure  "  journey  as  such  is  rather  a 
grim  sort  of  enterprise  for  any  but  the  most  enthusias- 
tic and  dauntless  of  travelers.  The  day  will  come, 
though,  when  it  will  be  as  common  for  the  Cooky  to 
go  whirling  through  the  passes  of  the  Pyrenees  en 
route  for  Lisbon  and  Tangiers,  as  it  is  now  for  the 
same  ubiquitous  individual  to  sail  up  the  Rhine  on  his 
way  into  Switzerland ;  and  the  time  is  not  far  distant 
when  the  great  American  tourist  will  multitudinously 
swarm  through  the  gardens  of  the  Alcazar  and  cut  his 


14  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways* 

initials  on  the  walls  of  the  Alhambra.  It  has  been 
a  true  saying  that  the  Pyrenees  separated  Europe  from 
Africa,  but,  in  the  nature  of  things,  that  cannot  last 
forever.  Even  Spain  is  beginning  to  feel  the  influ- 
ence of  the  nineteenth-century  spirit.  Soon  enough 
her  shiftless  picturesqueness,  her  squalid  grandeur, 
and  her  lazy  dignity,  will  give  way  before  the  dead 
commonplace  of  practical  modern  industry  and  thrift. 
A  word  as  to  this  modest  narrative.  Some  parts  of 
it  appeared  in  two  Boston  newspapers.  In  its  present 
form  it  has  been  revised  throughout,  and  augmented. 
Certain  entertaining  and  harmless  exaggerations 
which  enlivened  the  original  text  have  been  modified 
or  expunged  :  not  because  I  am  narrow  enough  to  con- 
fine myself  to  facts  unnecessarily,  but  because  on 
reading  Theophile  Gautier,  Alexandre  Dumas,  and 
Edmondo  de  Amicis,  I  perceive  not  only  that  there  is 
no  need  for  me  to  tamper  with  the  truth,  but  that,  in 
point  of  fact,  the  best  way  for  me  to  get  a  reputation 
for  originality  is  to  be  truthful.  Gautier's  book  is 
thoroughly  delightful.  A  genius  has  a  right  to  lie  ; 
but  nous  autres — never!  Furthermore,  I  would  ask 
the  reader  to  look  upon  the  record  of  this  journey  as 
the  most  off-hand  of  vacation  sketches,  in  which  I 
have  aimed  to  avoid  flippancy  on  the  one  hand  and 
pedantry  on  the  other.  If  the  reader  has  a  mania  for 
the  Picturesque,  and  a  not  over-fastidious  stomach,  let 
him  then  mentally  pack  his  kit  and  be  ready  for  a 
start. 


CHAPTER  II. 

PARIS    TO    BURGOS. 

THE  direct  route  from  Paris  to  Spain  is  by  the 
Orleans  railroad,  via  Orleans,  Tours,  Angouleme,  Bor- 
deaux, and  Bayonne.  Sleeping-cars  are  run  through 
from  Paris  to  Madrid  over  this  line.  Berths  are  an 
expensive  luxury  in  Europe,  however,  —  about  five 
dollars  extra  for  a  night,  and  it  may  be  fancied  that 
they  are  not  largely  patronized.  The  Europeans  gene- 
rally do  not  take  kindly  to  American  railroad  improve- 
ments. 

There  was  a  sunset  when  we  rode  down  to  the 
Orleans  station  in  Paris  —  a  sunset  more  splendid  than 
any  German  chromo-lithograph,  full  of  crimson-lake 
and  chrome-yellow  as  a  conflagration.  We  had  just 
dined,  and  being  unaware  that  we  were  not  to  eat  a  first- 
rate  dinner  for  at  least  a  month  to  come,  were  in  high 
spirits  and  full  of  pleasant  anticipations.  The  smooth 
rolling  of  the  wheels  of  our  victoria  over  the  asphalt 
was  as  music  in  our  ears.  We  passed  the  garden  of 
the  Tuileries  and  the  Louvre  (do  you  remember  how 
D'Artagnan  got  Anne  of  Austria,  and  the  young  king, 
and  Mazarin,  away  from  the  rebellious  city?)  ;  crossed 
to  the  monumental  Island  of  the  Cite  and  whirled  rap- 
idly around  to  the  rear  of  Our  Lady  of  Paris  (how 


1 6  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

fine  those  flying  buttresses  are !  )  ;  peeped  shudder- 
ingly  into  the  open  door  of  the  horrible  Morgue  as  we 
passed ;  and  when,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine,  we 
rattled  along  abreast  of  the  shadowy  Jardin  des 
Plantes,  looked  back  to  see  the  river  with  its  noble 
bridges,  the  great  cathedral  towers,  and  the  whole 
stirring  panorama  of  the  town  bathed  in  a  liquid, 
changeful  glory  of  color,  so  superb  that  it  might  well 
have  been  taken  for  a  good  omen. 

The  night  train  for  the  South  left  at  half-past  eight, 
and  for  three  hours  we  sat  chatting  by  the  window  of 
our  carriage  while  we  were  rattled  swiftly  through  the 
long,  sleeping  stretches  of  moonlit  country ;  and  our 
talk  was  of  the  land  of  the  Cid,  of  Cervantes,  of  Mu- 
rillo,  of  Velasquez,  of  Moorish  palaces  and  mosques, 
of  bull-fights,  of  cathedrals,  of  "  castles  in  Spain." 
All  this,  from  a  subject  of  conversation,  shortly  became 
a  subject  for  dreams  ;  and  it  must  be  confessed  that 
we  were  surprised  when  we  opened  our  eyes  to  find 
ourselves  in  Bordeaux  at  about  seven  in  the  morning. 
Bordeaux !  What  a  strangely  familiar  sound  the 
name  had,  yet  we  had  never  been  there  before.  We 
jumped  out  of  the  carriage  and  had  some  very  bad 
coffee  and  rolls  by  way  of  breakfast,  then  bought  some 
novels,  and  settled  ourselves  down  for  a  tedious  ride 
through  Gascony.  A  dreary  desert  of  sand,  Les 
Landes,  was  crossed,  and  about  noon  the  train  arrived 
at  Bayonne,  the  last  town  of  consequence  in  France. 
A  little  river,  the  Bidassoa,  divides  France  from  Spain, 


Paris  to  Burgos.  17 

and  after  crossing  it  the  first  station  is  Irun,  where  the 
Spanish  customs-officers  were  awaiting  us.  The  ex- 
amination of  baggage  is  not  much  more  than  a  empty 
form;  nothing  but  the  largest  trunks  are  opened,  and 
the  operation  is  soon  over.  It  is  necessary  to  change 
cars  here,  for  the  Spanish  railways  are  of  a  wider 


gauge  than  the  French.  The  frontier  is  no  sooner 
crossed  than  one  notices  the  different  characteristics 
of  people,  buildings,  carriages,  ways,  and  surroundings, 
in  a  score  of  respects.  A  long  delay  occurs  —  more 
than  half  an  hour  after  the  train  and  passengers  are 
ready.  Finally  a  workman  comes  along  and  deliber- 
ately splices  a  new  tassel  on  to  the  cord  of  the  window- 
shade  in  our  compartment.  "  Ah  !  "  sighs  an  old 
Frenchman  sitting  near  us,  "  one  sees  well  that  one  is 
in  Spain.  Ordinarily  that  is  done  in  the  workshops." 
On  this  we  lead  him  into  conversation.  He  has  lived 
in  Spain  half  the  time  for  the  past  ten  or  twelve  years, 
having  established  a  manufactory  somewhere  near 
Saragossa.  He  says  Spain  is  just  one  century  behind 
the  times,  and  he  goes  on  to  draw  a  gloomy  picture  of 
her  condition  — ' '  devoured  by  the  church  and  the  army." 
On  the  railways  no  attention  whatever  is  paid  to  the 


1 8  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

comfort  of  the  passengers  ;  the  eating  is  not  fit  for 
human  beings ;  honesty  is  utterly  unknown  ;  there  is 
no  security  for  property  ;  everyone  lives  in  sloth  and 
squalor  and  ignorance;  and  more  of  the  same  tenor. 
He  told  several  amusing  anecdotes.  In  winter,  he 
said,  they  have  foot- warmers  filled  with  hot  water  to 
place  in  the  railway  carriages.  At  a  station  a  passen- 
ger opens  the  door  and  calls  out  to  the  guard  that  the 
foot-warmer  is  cold.  The  guard  goes  and  orders  a 
third  party  to  replace  the  cold  foot-warmer  by  a  warm 
one.  It  is  apparently  done,  and  the  various  function- 
aries receive  their  ''gratification"  (fee),  but  after 
leaving  the  station  the  passenger  discovers  that  the 
new  foot-warmer  is  as  cold  as  a  stone.  The  lazy 
rascals  had  shifted  the  foot-warmers  about  from  one 
carriage  to  another.  A  second  anecdote  was  to  this 
effect :  A  poor  widow  was  moving  her  domicile  from 
one  town  to  another,  and  had  sent  a  boxful  of  clothing 
and  bedding  by  express  to  her  prospective  home. 
When  the  box  was  opened  there  was  nothing  in  it 
but  stones  and  gravel.  The  widow  complained  in  due 
form  to  the  forwarding  company,  whose  representa- 
tives shrugged  their  shoulders  and  said  it  was  "  too 
bad."  Voila  tout !  While  the  Gaul  was  regaling  us 
with  these  and  similar  histories,  we  were  moving  at 
a  very  sedate  pace  through  "  the  Normandy  of  Spain," 
a  remarkably  picturesque,  but  not  a  remarkably  fertile, 
region,  except  by  comparison  with  other  parts  of  the 
Peninsula.  At  San  Sebastian,  a  finely  situated  coast 


Paris  to  Burgos.  19 

town,  now  a  favorite  summer  resort,  a  party  of  six  or 
seven  men  besieged  our  compartment,  and  handed  in 
one  valise  after  another,  together  with  hat-boxes, 
baskets,  parcels,  and  rugs  enough  for  a  large  family ; 
each  one  talking  very  volubly  all  the  time.  We  sup- 
posed they  were  all  going  to  Madrid,  at  least,  but  it 
turned  out  that  only  one  of  them  was  going  at  all, 
that  all  the  traps  belonged  to  him,  and  that  the  others 
had  come  to  see  him  off.  Consequently,  when  the 
dinner-bell  and  the  fire  alarm-bell  and  the  gong  and 
the  whistle  had  all  sounded  for  the  purpose  of  announ- 
cing that  the  train  would  start  in  five  or  ten  minutes, 
the  traveler  was  embraced  by  each 
of  his  friends  and  received  at  least 
a  dozen  parting  speeches.  Then  he 
settled  back  in  his  seat,  tipped  his 
hat  to  us,  and  lighted  a  cigarette  with 
an  air  of  sad  determination.  He 
traveled  as  much  as  thirty  miles,  and 
then  left  us.  I  think  he  had  made 
his  will  before  starting,  and  looked 
upon  himself  as  a  great  traveler. 

The  railway  soon  quits  the  coast 
of  the  Bay  of  Biscay  and  enters 
among  the  highly  romantic  Canta- 
brian  Mountains,  where  the  train 
plunges  noisily  through  a  seemingly 
interminable  succession  of  tunnels.  It  was  among 
these  rock-bound  defiles  that  the  Carlists  carried  on 


2O  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

their  prolonged  guerilla  war  against  the  government, 
inflicting  an  untold  amount  of  damage  upon  the 
region,  which  still  shows  traces  of  their  wanton  de- 
structiveness.  No  country  could  be  better  adapted 
to  the  desultory  warfare  waged  by  these  bandits.  The 
whole  region,  a  succession  of  gaunt,  rocky  ridges  and 
deep  ravines,  peaks  with  the  fantastic  resemblance  of 
architectural  forms  so  frequently  observed  in  these 
mountain  chains,  mysterious  caverns  and  forests,  gorges 
and  cascades,  —  all  suggested  the  contrabandista,  the 
robber,  and  the  kindred  heroes  celebrated  in  all  litera- 
ture relating  to  Spain.  "  Mountain  fastnesses"  became 
an  intelligible  phrase  to  me,  and  at  each  bend  in  the 
road  I  half  expected  to  see,  peering  over  a  rocky 
breastwork,  the  stern  visage  and  fantastic  headgear  of 
a  Carlist  sentinel,  with  leveled  rifle,  demanding  the 
watchword.  However,  nothing  half  so  romantic  as 
that  occurred.  We  presently  stopped  at  the  station 
of  Miranda  for  dinner ;  it  was  half-past  eight  in  the 
evening,  for  on  Spanish  railways  and  indeed  in  Spain 
generally  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  regular  hour  for 
meals.  Having  heard  so  much  said  about  the  miser- 
able quality  of  Spanish  cookery,  we  were  pleasantly 
disappointed  in  the  repast  at  Miranda,  which  was  not 
intolerably  bad  by  any  means.  As  we  learned  later, 
Miranda  is  one  of  the  three  or  four  places  where  you 
can  get  a  good  meal.  After  leaving  this  oasis  in  the 
dreary  desert  of  bad  food  into  which  we  had  plunged, 
we  entered  the  province  of  Old  Castile,  and  at  half- 
past  ten  arrived  at  the  ancient  capital —  Burgos. 


CHAPTER  III. 

BURGOS. 

BURGOS  is  doubtless  the  most  interesting  town  in 
the  north  of  Spain  ;  but  it  is  the  little  things  that  im- 
press one  in  traveling,  and  our  first  plunge  was  not 
encouraging.  None  of  the  hotels  are  unreservedly 
recommended.  As  a  choice  of  evils  we  had  deter- 
mined to  try  the  Fonda  del  Norte.  At  first  it  seemed 
as  if  we  were  not  destined  to  find  any  lodging  at  all. 
The  omnibus  bearing  the  name  of  the  hotel  stood  at 
the  door  of  the  station,  and  entering  it  promptly,  we 
handed  the  little  numbered  slip  of  paper,  called  a  "bul- 
letin "  (the  nearest  approach  the  effete  nations  have 
made  to  a  baggage-check),  to  the  driver,  who  disap- 
peared in  the  direction  of  the  baggage-room.  A 
charming  half-hour  passed  away  before  he  returned 
with  the  trunk.  In  the  meantime  I  had  got  out  of  the 
omnibus  twice,  and  had  looked  in  at  the  baggage- 
room  to  see  how  affairs  were  progressing.  The  driver 
and  eight  porters  were  engaged  in  an  animated  con- 
versation. No  one  present  spoke  French,  so  I 
conceived  the  happy  idea  of  talking  very  loud  to  the 
driver  in  English,  repeating  the  word  "equipages" 
(baggage)  at  frequent  intervals,  and  occasionally 
putting  my  hand  into  my  pocket,  as  if  I  were  about 


22  Spanish  Ways  and  By-iuays. 

to  haul  forth  a  small  fortune.  In  a  few  moments  the 
trunk  was  forthcoming.  We  were  conveyed  some 
distance,  through  narrow,  winding  streets,  under  arch- 
ways dimly  lighted,  and  past  great,  dark  buildings  with 
grated  windows,  until  at  last  the  infernal  racket  made 
by  a  rapidly  driven  omnibus  in  roughly  paved  streets 
ceased  abruptly,  the  door  of  the  vehicle  was  thrown 
open,  and  we  were  about  to  descend  when  a  frowzy 
woman,  speaking  what  she  thought  was  French, 
appeared  and  informed  us  that  the  inn  was  full,  owing 
to  to-morrow's  fete,  namely,  the  festival  of  Saints  Peter 
and  Paul,  which  was  to  be  brilliantly  celebrated,  etc. 
After  she  had  been  talking  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes, 
we  begged  her  to  come  to  the  point  and  tell  us  the 
worst  at  once.  Thus  it  happened  that  at  midnight 
we  were  taken  to  a  private  house  where  there  was  a 
room  which  we  might  occupy  until  the  pressure  of 
business  at  the  Fonda  del  Norte  should  be  over.  The 
driver  knocked  thunderously  at  the  porte-cocJiere  of 
a  tall,  stuccoed  building,  and  it  opened,  admitting  our 
forlorn  group.  We  were  conducted  up  a  picturesque 
stone  staircase,  through  such  a  stiff  odor  of  the  stable 
that  I  fancied  there  was  some  mistake,  and  that  we 
had  been  brought  to  the  wrong  building,  but  such 
was  not  the  case.  Incredible  as  it  may  appear,  the 
very  worthy  and  respectable  people  who  received  us 
as  lodgers  live  in  the  midst  of  that  stifling  odor,  which 
fills  every  room  in  the  vast  house,  and,  I  am  forced  to 
conclude  that  they,  and  the  natives  generally,  like  it. 


Burgos.  23 

Our  hosts  could  not  easily  get  used  to  the  notion 
that  we  did  not  speak  Spanish,  and,  consequently, 
they  plied  us  with  questions  and  seemed  to  regard  our 
replies  —  a  rather  ingenious  mixture  of  French,  Latin, 


and  deaf-and-dumb  language  —  as  very  comical,  as 
they  doubtless  were.  All  in  all,  it  was  a  great  lark 
for  the  elderly  lady  and  her  twro  pretty  daughters,  and 
it  was  not  without  a  good  deal  of  laughter  that  we 
made  them  understand  that  we  were  Americans,  that 
the  hotel  was  full,  that  we  had  been  sent  to  them  for 
a  night's  lodging,  that  we  should  tearfully  take  our 
leave  in  the  morning,  and  that  we  needed  no  food  or 
drink  before  retiring.  It  was  on  this  occasion  that 


24  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

the  hollow  pretensions  of  a  Spanish  phrasebook 
bought  in  Paris  were  shown  up.  It  had  nothing  in  it 
but  such  remarks  as  "  Will  this  telegram  go  to-day?" 
(!)  "This  pair  of  boots  does  not  fit  me,"  "Steward, 
bring  me  a  basin,"  etc.,  which,  it  may  be  conceived, 
did  not  help  us  much.  However,  though  the  book 
was  worthless,  it  contained  no  such  suggestive 
or  alarming  dialogues  as  the  following,  which  M. 
Theophile  Gautier  found  in  his  Spanish  phrasebook, 
under  the  caption,  "Arrival  at  the  Inn":  Traveler - 
"  I  would  like  to  take  something,  as  I  am  very  hun- 
gry." Landlord —  "  Take  a  chaif1 !  "  Traveler  —  "  But 
I  would  like  to  take  something  to  eat !  "  Landlord — 
"  Well,  what  have  you  brought  with  you  ? "  The 
traveler  sadly  admits  that  he  has  brought  no  victuals 
with  him,  so  then  the  landlord  shows  him  the  butch- 
er's shop  and  the  bakery,  and  adds  :  "  If  you  will  go 
and  get  some  meat  and  bread,  I  think  my  wife  will 
probably  cook  the  things  for  you."  Whereupon  the 
traveler  grows  furious  and  abusive,  after  which  he 
quiets  down  and  does  as  he  is  bid,  but  on  his  depar- 
ture he  pays,  among  other  items  in  his  bill,  "  Row,  8 
reales" 

The  town  was  very  noisy  that  night,  and  many 
musically  disposed  persons  seemed  to  be  abroad,  cel- 
ebrating in  advance  the  festival  of  the  two  saints. 
The  room  where  we  found  ourselves  was  as  full  of 
subtle  odors  as  the  air  was  full  of  startling  sounds. 
The  door  refused  to  be  locked  and  the  windows  would 


Burgos.  25 

not  be  shut.  We  looked  for  a  trap  in  the  floor,  but 
found  none,  and  concluded  that  the  audible  conversa- 
tion in  the  adjoining  room  did  not  concern  the 
manner  of  our  taking  off  or  the  subsequent  disposition 
of  our  mortal  remains  ;  and  so  presently  we  suc- 
cumbed to  the  drowsy  god,  and  were  as  much  at  home 
as  any  wanderers  may  be  who  sleep  and  forget  where 
they  are. 

We  found  our  way  back  to  the  Fonda  del  Norte 
early  in  the  morning,  and  the  linguist,  looking  more 
frowzy  than  ever,  talked  us  upstairs  and  into  the  best 
rooms  in  the  house.  The  hotel  smelled  as  badly  as 
the  house  where  we  had  slept,  but  differently,  —  it  was 
a  more  elaborate  odor.  Still,  it  was  not  so  powerful 
and  rank  as  the  scent  which  the  streets  could  furnish, 
and  after  opening  the  windows  for  awhile,  it  was 
decided  to  shut  them.  Soon  Hermano  went  out, 
holding  his  handkerchief  to  his  nose,  and  shortly  came 
back  in  triumph  with  a  bottle  of  Cologne-water  ! 

"  If  you  think  you  have  smelled  Burgos  yet,"  he 
gasped,  "  you  are  mistaken.  You  have  not  been  to 
the  Plaza  Mayor.  I  never  until  now  appreciated  the 
force  of  Marcellus's  remark,  '  Something  is  rotten  in 
the  state  of  Denmark.'  The  greatest  man  Europe  has 
produced  —  since  the  Cid  —  is  John  Mary  Farina." 

An  uninviting  breakfast  of  hard  white  bread  and 
coffee  with  queer  milk  was  served  in  the  long,  narrow, 
and  dark  dining-room,  where  unhappily  the  windows 
were  open.  Then  we  found  a  small  boy  who  spoke 


26  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

a  few  words  of  French,  and  we  set  forth  for  the  cathe- 
dral, hugging  the  shady  sides  of  the  streets,  for  it  was 
growing  very  warm.  The  exterior  of  the  cathedral 
must  have  been  wonderfully  effective  before  it  was 
defaced  by  the  "  alterations"  of  some  vandal  architect, 
who  evidently  considered  the  pure  Gothic  a  very  bad 
style,  and  tried  to  improve  the  front  by  converting 
it  into  a  Romanesque  monstrosity.  The  spires,  of 
wonderfully  elaborate  and  airy  open-work  in  stone, 
are  happily  left  intact  as  originally  constructed.  There 
is  no  good  view  of  the  building  to  be  had,  as  it  is 
surrounded  by  mean  structures,  but  there  are  a  good 
many  "  bits"  of  detail  which  are  very  beautiful.  We 
were  glad  enough  to  get  into  the  cool  interior,  where 
an  occasional  whiff  of  incense  (not  ordinarily  a  grate- 
ful perfume  to  heterodox  nostrils)  was  very  welcome. 
The  chief  charm  of  all  the  great  Spanish  churches  lies 
in  the  wonderful  wealth  of  interior  decoration  and 
detail,  upon  which  art  and  industry  have  lavished  all 
their  best  endeavors  for  centuries  ;  and  to  this  there 
is  but  one  exception  to  be  made,  namely,  the  Seville 
cathedral,  which,  while  it  excels  all  others  in  its  artistic 
and  material  treasures,  is  yet  remarkable  principally 
by  virtue  of  its  superb  proportions  and  majestic  size. 
The  Burgos  cathedral  is  a  great  museum  and  treasure- 
house,  containing  countless  chapels  filled  by  rich 
altars,  princely  tombs,  elaborate  retablos,  and  precious 
works  of  art.  Not  far  from  the  entrance  a  young 
priest,  lantern-jawed  and  hungry-looking,  took  us  in 


Burgos.  2  7 

charge,  and  sadly  showed  us  the  wonders  of  the  place, 
accepting  a  couple  of  timidly  preferred  pesetas  at  the 
close  of  the  exercises.  He  spoke  French  —  the  sort 
of  French  that  Spaniards  speak.  It  is  not  like  the 
French  of  Stratford-atte-Bowe,  yet,  much  to  the  profit 
and  pleasure  of  all  concerned,  we  understood  each 
other.  I  wish  I  could  remember  the  conversation, 
for  it  must  have  been  somewhat  amusing  on  both 
sides.  Something  in  the  young  man's  manner  made 
me  feel  sympathy  for  him  ;  he  seemed  out  of  place 
amid  his  surroundings  ;  he  wanted  to  know  so  many 
things  about  the  great  world  outside  ;  and  he  seemed 
a  very  human  and  modern  pattern  of  a  Spanish  priest 
to  spend  his  days  in  such  a  place.  Yet  how  fine,  how 
grand  it  is,  this  monument  of  a  faith  which  has  done 
more  than  move  mountains !  It  is  no  part  of  my 
intention  to  describe  it.  But  there  are  two  sensational 
objects  of  curiosity  which  ought  not  to  be  passed  by. 
The  first  is  the  Cid's  coffer.  This  enormous  iron-bound 
chest,  as  capacious  as  the  most  inordinate  Saratoga 
trunk,  is  to  be  seen  in  the  chapter-house,  where  it  is 
falling  to  pieces  from  age.  The  story  runs  that  the 
Cid  was  "short"  just  before  he  started  for  one  of  his 
campaigns  in  the  South ;  and  in  order  to  raise  the 
necessary  funds,  he  filled  this  and  another  similar 
chest  with  sand,  then  presenting  them  to  two  Hebrews 
as  collateral  security  for  an  enormous  loan,  repre- 
sented the  contents  to  be  gold  and  silver  ware ;  thus 
he  obtained  the  required  cash,  so  well  was  he  known 


28  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

to  the  money-lenders  as  an  honorable  knight.  On 
his  return  he  faithfully  repaid  the  loan  with  a  good 
round  interest :  — 

"  Y  a  los  honrados  Judios 
Raquel  y  Vidas  llevad 
Docientos  marcos  de  oro, 
Tantos  de  plata,  y  no  mas, 
Que  me  endonaron  prestados 
Cuando  me  parti  a  lidiar 
Sobre  dos  cofres  de  arena 
Debajo  de  mi  verdad  ; 
Y  rogadles  de  mi  parte 
Que  me  quieran  perdonar 
Que  con  acuita  lo  fice 
De  mi  gran  necesidad. 
Que  aunque  cuidan  que  es  arena 
Lo  que  en  los  cofres  esta, 
Quedo  soterrado  en  ella 
El  oro  de  mi  verdad." 

The  other  curiosity  is  a  life-size  effigy  of  Jesus  on 
the  cross,  known  as  "  the  Christ  of  Burgos."  As  a 
specimen  of  the  art  of  woocl-carving  it  is  exceedingly 
interesting  and  even  wonderful.  But  it  is  revolting 
in  its  realistic  representation  of  physical  anguish. 
The  expression  of  intense  suffering  in  the  drawn  lines 
of  the  face,  the  agonized  movement  of  the  emaciated 
trunk  and  limbs,  the  rills  of  crimson  blood  which 
trickle  from  the  wounds,  —  everything,  —  is  brutally 
set  forth  in  the  good  old  Spanish  way,  which  leaves 
nothing  to  the  imagination.  Some  writers  have  been 
informed,  and  apparently  have  believed,  that  the  figure 


Burgos.  29 

was  a  stuffed  human  skin,  but  the  fiction  is  as  absurd 
as  the  legend,  which  states  that  it  floated  miraculously 
from  the  Holy  Land  over  the  seas  to  Burgos.  The 
comparatively  unknown  sculptor  of  the  sixteenth 
century  whose  work  it  is  would  no  doubt  feel  flattered 
if  he  could  know  of  the  tales  concerning  its  origin. 
The  carving  of  the  stalls  in  the  choir,  which,  as  in 
almost  all  the  Spanish  churches,  is  placed  in  the 
centre  of  the  nave  in  just  such  a  position  as  to  destroy 
the  best  perspective  of  the  interior,  is  also  a  work  of 
great  intricacy  and  beauty.  Seldom  has  wood  been 
wrought  into  nobler  forms  than  in  some  of  the  twenty 
chapels,  where  the  bones  of  many  a  deceased  grandee 
of  Castile  lie  entombed  under  superb  monuments  of 
marble  and  bronze.  The  few  paintings  of  value  in 
these  chapels,  including  one  by  Sebastian  del  Piombo 
and  one  by  Ribera,  can  be  seen  to  very  ill  advantage 
in  the  half-light  of  the  gruesome  recesses  where  they 
are  placed. 

We  climbed  to  the  highest  perch  inside  the  spire, 
to  obtain  a  panoramic  view  of  the  town.  The  bells 
rang  a  noisy  noonday  peal  directly  under  our  feet  as 
we  gazed,  and  the  young  priest  smiled  —  he  was 
singularly  handsome  when  he  smiled  —  to  see  us 
clutch  the  slight  handrail  so  vigorously,  as  the  airy 
structure  vibrated  with  the  shock  of  the  ringing.  We 
went  out  by  another  door,  and  wandered  about  the 
town  aimlessly,  avoiding  the  beggars  as  best  we  could. 
One  of  this  tribe,  who  was  seated  in  a  warm  corner 


Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 


in  front  of  a  big,  massive  door,  holding  out  his  hand 
and  muttering  mechanical  appeals,  had  a  parchment- 
like  skin  of  the  rich  tone  of  old  mahogany,  and  the 
physiognomy  of  a  North  American  Indian,  modified 

by  some  very  decided  Irish 
characteristics.        He     wore 
sandals,    but    they    were    a 
useless  luxury.     The  coat  of 
dirt  on  his  feet  would  have 
been    sufficient     protection. 
The  beggars  in  Bur- 
gos are  numerous  but 
not  aggressive  ;   it   is 
only  in  Granada  that 
they     wage     open 
warfare  upon  stran- 
gers, pursue  them, 
surround  them, 
threaten    them, 
curse    them,    and 
mob  them  when  an 
opportunity   offers. 
After  the  cathedral, 
Burgos    has  a   few 
minor  objects  of  in- 
terest to  show  the 

stranger  :  among  these  are  the  house  of  the  Cid,  the 
Cid's  tomb,  several  chapels  containing  finely  carved 
altars  and  tombs  ;  and,  at  a  little  distance  from  the  city, 


Burgos.  3 1 

the  Carthusian  convent  of  Miraflores,  famous  formerly 
as  one  of  the  richest  monasteries  in  the  country,  and 
the  asylum  of  only  the  most  blue-blooded  nuns,  the 
daughters  of  the  aristocracy  esteeming  it  a  privilege 
to  be  interred  alive  in  such  a  fine  place. 

Perhaps  there  is  nothing  more  interesting  in  the 
place,  however,  than  the  Plaza  Mayor,  where,  during 
the  fete,  the  people  congregated  to  chat  and  idle  away 
the  time. 

The  noonday  meal  at  the  Fonda  del  Norte  was  one 
of  the  most  mysterious  repasts  we  had  ever  encoun- 
tered. Not  a  single  dish  wTas  in  the  least  degree  like 
any  dish  we  had  ever  tasted  before,  and  to  this  day  we 
suspect  that  one  of  the  most  alluring  courses  consisted 
of  donkey's  meat  stewed  in  rancid  oil.  The  salad 
looked  well,  but  gave  forth  the  same  odor  as  the  soup, 
which  it  would  not  be  proper  to  characterize  as  it 
merits.  We  left  the  table,  hungry. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

FIRST     BULL-FIGHT. 

IT  will  be  many  years  before  public  opinion  demands 
or  permits  the  abolition  of  the  national  amusement. 
You  are  told  by  a  certain  class  of  Spaniards,  who  are 
inclined  to  be  very  sensitive  and  self-conscious,  that 
bull-fighting  as  an  institution  is  falling  into  merited 
disrepute  ;  that  they  themselves  consider  it  barbarous 
and  disgusting,  and  that  it  will  not  be  long  before  it 
will  be  abolished  ;  in  proof  of  which  they  point  out  the 
efforts  constantly  making  in  the  Cortes  for  the  legal 
prohibition  of  the  sport.  The  people  who  talk  in  this 
way  are,  I  think,  perfectly  sincere ;  but  they  are  in  a 
very  small  minority.  New  rings  have  lately  been  built 
in  many  towns,  and  fine  arenas  are  supported  by 
comparatively  small  cities.  That  the  opponents  of 
bull-fighting  form  but  a  very  inconsiderable  proportion 
of  even  the  higher  classes  in  Spain  is  demonstrated 
by  the  practical  unanimity  with  which  the  aristocracy 
and  the  well-to-do  folk  of  the  large  cities  present 
themselves  in  their  upholstered  boxes  each  Sunday 
afternoon,  in  precisely  the  same  way  that  the  belles 
and  swells  of  London  or  Paris  drop  in  at  the  opera  on 
subscription  nights;  and  by  the  foundation,  in  1882, 
of  a  new  periodical  devoted  exclusively  to  the  arte 


First  Bull-fight.  33 

taurino.  The  genuine  lidiadores  regard  the  profession 
as  worthy  of  the  respect  due  to  a  branch  of  the  arts. 
If  the  bull-fight  may  not  be  justified  on  any  ground, 
it  may  be  immensely  dignified,  and  the  self-respect 
of  the  spectators  very  much  strengthened,  by  a  judi- 
cious employment  of  the  phrase  "  el  arte  taurino." 

It  is  only  on  special  holidays  that  the  provincial 
towns  have  bull-fights.  Madrid,  Barcelona,  Seville 
have  them  regularly  each  Sunday  throughout  the 
spring  and  summer.  A  corrida  extraor dinar ia  is 
usually  more  interesting  —  being  a  special  occasion, 
which  draws  out  a  special  crowd  —  than  a  corrida  de 
abono,  which  is  the  usual  weekly  performance,  and  is 
more  probably  attended  by  a  blase  or  over-critical 
audience.  For,  it  is  unnecessary  to  say,  the  audience 
is  always  at  least  as  interesting  for  the  foreigner  as 
the  combat. 

The  tickets,  in  the  large  towns,  are  numbered,  like 
theatre  tickets.  Here  is  a  Madrid  ticket :  — 

PLAZA  DE  TOROS. 


IIA  CORRIDA  DE  ABOXO. 


GRADA 


10 


SOMBRA. 


TERCERA  FILA, 

Xo.  22, 
DIEZ  REALES. 


Conservese  este  billete  durante  la  corrida. 

A  rude  cut  of  a  bull's    head,  two   banners,  and  a 
torero  ornament  the  face  of  the  ticket. 


34  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

In  Burgos  everybody  turned  out  with  the  open 
intention  of  "  making  a  day  of  it."  The  ring  accommo- 
dates eight  thousand  people,  and  the  performance 
begins  at  five  P.  M.  We  bought  seats  a  la  sombra  (in 
the  shade),  which  are  dearer  than  those  al  sol,  of 
course,  the  price  being  three  pesetas  each.  Foreigners 
find  it  easier  to  calculate  prices  in  pesetas  than  in 
reales,  because  a  peseta  is  exactly  the  same  as 
a  French  franc,  while  a  real  is  equivalent  to  five 
cents.  The  tickets  are  not  numbered  in  Burgos,  as 
they  are  in  Madrid,  and  it  was  necessary  to  go  early. 
So  we  set  forth  at  three  o'clock.  To  find  the  way  to 
the  plaza  de  toros  it  was  only  necessary  to  follow 
the  crowd.  The  general  absence  of  sidewalks  made 
no  difference  now,  as  the  street  was  filled  from  one 
side  to  the  other  with  the  throng.  Fan  merchants 
and  aguadores,  or  water-pedlars,  everywhere  drove  a 
thriving  trade.  It  was  very  hot  and  dusty,  and  in 
Spain  the  two  principal  occupations  in  summer  are 
fanning  and  drinking  water.  It  seems  un-European 
to  drink  cold  water  freely,  and  in  that  respect,  as  in 
many  others,  Spain  is  un-European.  Gautier  says  it 
is  a  part  of  Africa,  and  should  still  belong  to  the 
Moors  by  right.  The  aguadores  carry  their  staple  in 
earthen  jugs  of  beautiful  form,  and  usually  receive  a 
cent  for  a  glass  of  water.  Their  cry,  "  Quien  quiere 
agua?"  ("Who  wants  water?")  is  shrill  and  plain- 
tive. Before  serving  a  client  they  invariably  pour  a 
few  drops  of  the  precious  liquid  into  the  glass,  rinse 


First  Bull-fight. 


35 


the  inside  of  it  out  with  their  brown  fingers,  throw 
away  the  water  thus  used,  and  refill  the  glass  from 
one  of  their  jugs.  They  also  carry  a  sort  of  white 
confectionery,  the  size  of  a  small  breakfast-roll,  of  the 


consistency  of  a  piece  of  honeycomb,  which  you  can 
dip  in  the  water  and  suck  with  great  satisfaction  ; 
it  absorbs  the  water  and  'melts  away  gradually  in  the 
mouth. 

The  ring  is  just  outside  the  town,  and  you  pass  at 
least   a   score    of  side-shows  and   a  hundred   booths 


36  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

before  you  reach  it,  with  your  boots  powdered  by  the 
dust.  At  last  you  are  inside,  and  have  found  a  seat 
in  the  shade.  It  is  a  fine  spectacle,  and  suggests  a 
glorified  circus.  The  array  of  colors  is  simply  dazzling. 
Every  woman  has  a  fan,  and  if  she  is  not  holding  it 
up  to  screen  her  face  from  the  overpowering  rays  of 
the  sun,  she  is  going  through  those  thousand-and-one 
manoeuvres  with  it,  of  which  only  a  Spanish  woman 
knows  the  secret,  and  after  seeing  which  you  find  the 
fan  drill  of  other  women  unspeakably  awkward  and 
flat.  The  fan  is  never  motionless  for  the  hundredth 
part  of  a  second.  While  you  are  saying  "  Scat !  "  it  is 
opened  and  shut,  and  fluttered,  waved,  and  flirted 
until  your  head  swims,  and  you  are  only  conscious 
of  seeing  a  hazy  area  of  bright  color,  through  which 
a  pair  of  soft  black  eyes  may  be  looking  at  you  and 
through  you  as  innocently  as  possible.  All  Spanish 
women  have  the  gift  of  wielding  the  fan  born  in  them ; 
it  is  not  acquired.  The  tiniest  female  infant,  just 
learning  to  toddle  about,  manipulates  a  fan  in  a  way 
to  put  to  the  blush  the  adult  coquette  of  any  other 
nationality.  Almost  all  the  Spanish  women  still  wear 
the  toe  a,  or  lace  head-dress  (few  mantillas  are  worn 
commonly  —  they  are  going  out),  ordinarily  of  coarse 
black  lace,  and  it  is  immeasurably  prettier  and  more 
becoming  than  any  hat  or  bonnet  that  ever  was 
invented.  They  affect  black  dresses  also,  so  that  the 
fan  is,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  set  off  against  a  dark 
background  with  decided  effect.  Nowhere  have  I 


First  Bull-fight. 


37 


seen  prettier  girls  or  handsomer  women  than  among 
the  spectators  at  this  bull-fight  in  Burgos.  The 
average  of  beautiful  faces  was  unquestionably  fifty  per 
cent,  above  that  of  any  equally  representative  crowd 
in  any  other  European  country.  Not  one  blonde,  not 
even  a  rousse  or  a  brown-haired  maiden  in  all  the 
throng.  All  were 
uncompromising  bru- 
nettes, with  jet  black 
hair,  black  eyes,  and 
dark  complexions. 
The  seats  were  mere 
benches,  placed  so 
close  together  that, 
once  in  your  place, 
you  could  not  move 
an  inch.  The  crowd 
grew  larger  and  more 
dense  at  every  mo- 
ment. Imagine  the  animation  of  a  House  of  Repre- 
sentatives on  a  field-day,  of  a  National  Convention, 
of  the  meetings  of  the  Massachusetts  Temperance 
Alliance,  and  quadruple  it ;  then  you  may  have  a 
feeble  idea  of  the  commotion,  the  uproar,  and  the 
movement  of  the  audience  while  waiting  for  the 
corrida  to  begin.  An  incident  of  the  slightest 
importance  was  seized  upon  as  a  pretext  for  a  riot. 
A  man  lost  his  hat ;  it  was  knocked  out  of  the  hands 
of  the  person  who  picked  it  up  to  return  it  to  the 


38  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

owner  ;  it  was  tossed  here  and  there,  and  finally  fell 
into  the  ring  ;  instantly  there  went  up  a  roar  from 
eight  thousand  throats  such  as  that  which  Milton  says 

"  Tore  hell's  concave,  and  beyond 
Frighted  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  old  Night." 

So  the  audience  amused  themselves  while  waiting, 
and  presently  family  parties  here  and  there  produced 
huge  hampers  from  which  the  necks  of  bottles 
protruded,  and,  opening  them,  began  to  eat  and  drink 
as  well  as  be  merry.  We  declined  offers  of  fruit, 
wine,  cheese,  etc.,  freely  made  by  our  generous 
neighbors.  Mr.  Ford  says  (in  Murray's  handbook), 
that  it  is  the  invariable  custom  to  offer  to  share  with 
your  neighbors  in  the  railway-carriage,  or  elsewhere, 
whatever  you  are  about  to  eat,  drink,  or  smoke  ;  but 
that  such  offers  are  usually  declined,  or  at  any  rate  the 
first  time.  I  had  noted  this,  so  I  began  by  declining 
with  thanks,  but  found  I  was  seldom  or  never  asked 
a  second  time  ;  whereas,  when  I  passed  my  cigar-case 
about,  the  proud  Castilians  present  usually  omitted  to 
go  through  the  ceremony  of  declining  the  first  offer. 
Since  this  is  a  fair  sample  of  Mr.  Ford's  information, 
or  rather  misinformation,  I  need  not  mention  the 
other  instances  of  it.  His  advice  with  regard  to  one 
point  is,  however,  so  rich  that  is  worth  while  to  quote 
it:  "You  will  often  be  asked  if  you  are  a  Christian, 
meaning  a  Roman  Catholic ;  your  best  answer  is, 
*  Christiano,  si ;  Apostolico  Romano,  no.' '  He  takes 


First  Bull- fight.  39 

it  for  granted  that  all  his  readers  are  members  of 
the  Church  of  England.  Elsewhere  he  alludes  to 
the  Spaniards  as  "the  weaker  brethren,"  in  a  tone 
of  patronage  which  is  most  offensive,*  whereas  he 
evidently  thinks  he  is  displaying  a  spirit  of  great 
liberality  and  politeness. 

But  to  return  to  our  bulls.  At  the  appointed  hour 
the  algziacil,  or  governor,  entered  his  box  and  was 
received  with  a  tremendous  storm  of  cheers,  as  his 
coming  is  always  the  signal  for  the  beginning.  Two 
cavaliers  dressed  in  black  entered  the  ring  on  prancing 
horses,  and  gravely  saluted  this  authority,  who  flung 
the  key  of  the  bull-pen  to  one  of  them,  who  attempted 
to  catch  it  in  his  hat,  but  failed  and  had  to  dismount 
to  pick  it  up.  This  incident  produced  howls  of 
derision  and  thunders  of  laughter. 

As  soon  as  the  representatives  of  the  civil  authority 
had  withdrawn,  the  band  struck  up  a  wild  and 
fantastic  march,  and  the  various  bull-fighters  defiled 
into  the  ring  and  made  the  circuit  of  it,  saluting  the 
governor  in  passing  before  his  box.  A  flutter  of 
excitement  passed  through  the  audience.  The  valiant 
warriors  were  arrayed  in  the  most  gorgeous  costumes 
imaginable,  no  two  alike,  and  as  the  brilliant  proces- 
sion passed  slowly  along  I  could  think  of  nothing 
but  Del  Puente  singing  the  stirring  "  Toreador"  song 
in  "  Carmen." 


*  "  Few  Spaniards,  when  traversing  a  cathedral,  pass  the  high  altar  without  crossing  them- 
selves, since  the  incarnate  Host  is  placed  thereon  ;  and  in  order  not  to  offend  the  weaker  brethren, 
every  considerate  Protestant  should  also  manifest  an  outward  respect  for  this  Holy  of  Holies  of 
the  natives." 


40  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

The  generic  name  for  bull-fighters  is  toreros,  but 
there  are  various  classes,  —  the  chulos,  the  picadores, 
the  banderilleros,  and  the  espadas.  The  espada  is  the 
great  hero  of  the  combat,  and  the  vainglorious  bari- 
tone in  Bizet's  opera  is  doubtless  meant  to  be  an 
espada,  or,  as  the  star  performer  in  the  arena  is  some- 
times called,  a  matador.  He  is  the  swordsman  who 
inflicts  the  fatal  thrust  -upon  the  fierce  victim  of  the 
sport.  He  wears  a  gallant  costume  of  silk,  either 
purple,  green,  blue,  or  pink,  composed  of  knee- 
breeches  embroidered  with  silver  trimmings,  light 
silk  stockings,  a  jacket  also  adorned  with  elaborate 
trimmings  in  silver,  and  a  bright-hued  sash  ;  his  hair 
is  worn  in  a  chignon,  and  besides  his  long  sword  he 
carries  a  red  cloak  with  which  to  beguile  the  bull. 
The  picadores,  who  are  mounted  and  armed  with 
spears,  come  next  in  rank  to  the  espada.  They  wear 
short  velvet  jackets  of  vivid  colors,  splendidly  embroi- 
dered, gaudy  vests,  and  frilled  shirts,  cravats  of  mixed 
colors  loosely  knotted,  silken  sashes,  buffalo-hide 
trousers  over  a  light  armor  which  is  designed  to  protect 
the  legs  from  the  bull's  horns,  wide-brimmed  sombreros 
of  gray.  The  duty  of  these  big  fellows  is  to  prod  the 
bull  while  he  is  engaged  in  goring  their  horses  to 
death.  The  banderilleros,  who  are  arrayed  like  the 
espada,  only  not  quite  so  sumptuously,  are  on  foot, 
and  have  to  plant  barbs  in  the  bull's  neck.  The  chulos, 
by  the  use  of  their  red  cloaks,  draw  the  bull's  attention 
here  and  there  as  the  exigency  may  require.  Then 


First  Bull-fight.  41 

there  are  a  lot  of  men  in  red  caps,  called  miradores, 
a  kind  of  "  supers,"  who  find  plenty  of  occupation  in 
stripping  the  saddles  and  bridles  off  from  dying 
horses,  stopping  the  wounds  of  other  steeds  with 
plugs  of  cotton,  in  order  that  they  may  serve  once 
more,  and  kindred  pleasant  services.  All  these 
functionaries  would  look  supremely  absurd  in  such 
gorgeous  costumes  if  it  were  not  for  the  fact  that  they 
are  superbly  built  men,  of  elegant  carriage  and  great 
dignity  of  demeanor. 

When  the  bull  enters  the  ring,  he  finds  two  mounted 
picadores  and  a  half-dozen  or  more  chulos  there.  He 
usually  kills  the  two  horses  (unless  he  is  a  very 
cowardly  specimen)  and  as  many  more  as  he  has  the 
courage  to  gore  in  the  space  of  ten  minutes  or  there- 
about, —  for  as  fast  as  the  picadores  are  unhorsed  they 
are  supplied  with  fresh  steeds.  Of  course  the  moment 
a  horse  is  down,  the  chulos  draw  the  bull  away  by 
flirting  their  cloaks  in  front  of  him,  so  that  the  picador 
has  time  to  get  out  of  the  way  in  safety.  Nevertheless 
the  picadores  are  often  hurt,  and  a  spare  hand  is 
always  in  waiting  to  replace  the  wounded  man  —  also, 
by  the  way,  a  surgeon  and  a  priest.  At  the  end  of 
a  short  space  of  time  the  governor  gives  a  signal, 
trumpets  sound,  and  the  picadores  retire  to  give  place 
to  the  banderilleros,  two  in  number,  who  each  try  to 
place  a  couple  of  pairs  of  barbs  in  the  bull's  neck  (a 
dangerous  feat),  which  is  often  done  so  deftly  that  it 
is  impossible  to  see  the  man's  motions.  The  bander- 


Spanish   ]Vays  and  By-ways. 


illeros  are  called  off  by  the  trumpet-signal  presently, 
and  the  espada  comes  to  the  front.  He  makes  a 
little  speech  to  the  governor,  \vhich  means  that  he 
intends  to  do  his  whole  duty,  etc.,  flings  his  cap  on  the 

ground,  and  approaches 
the  bull  with  his  sword 
hid  under  the  folds  of  a 
short  red  cloak.  After 
playing  with  the  animal 
a  while,  he  kills  him  by 
a  single  thrust  in  a  vital 
spot,  plunging  the  Toledo 
blade  in  its  entire  length. 
The  bull  then  usually 
staggers  a  few  steps,  falls 
on  his  knees,  and  in  a 
few  moments  rolls  over 
on  his  side. 

Six  or  eight  bulls  are  commonly  sacrificed  in  one 
corrida.  Of  course  they  vary  in  character,  so  that  no 
two  combats  are  alike.  The  best  bulls  are  bred  in 
Andalusia,  it  is  said  ;  but,  as  it  happened,  the  liveliest 
animal  I  saw  was  one  of  the  six  in  Burgos.  He  was 
enormous  in  size  and  magnificently  built ;  and  when 
he  entered  the  ring  he  did  not  stop  in  the  centre  to 
look  around  as  some  bulls  do,  but  he  went  for  the 
nearest  picador  like  a  shot,  and  lifted  the  horse  on  his 
horns  two  or  three  feet  from  the  ground,  amid  a 
tempest  of  cheers.  By  the  time  that  horse  came  down 


First  Bull-fight. 


43 


to  the  earth  in  his  death  agony,  rolling  and  kicking  so 
that  the  picador  was  in  great  peril,  the  plucky  bull  had 
crossed  the  arena  on  a  run,  sending  chulos  one  after 
another  skipping  over  the  fence  for  safety,  and  had 
impaled  the  second  horse,  whose  rider  gracefully 
alighted  on  the  fence  and  escaped  being  crushed.  So 
for  ten  minutes  this  bull,  never  for  a  moment  on  the 
defensive,  sent  one  horse  after  another  into  the  eternity 


of  hacks,  until  eight  dead  and  dying  horses  were  lying 
on  the  ground,  and  the  audience  was  almost  frantic 
with  delight  and  admiration.  I  found  myself  wiping 
the  cold  perspiration  from  my  brow,  and  (I  may  as 
well  confess  it)  before  long  I  was  jumping  up  and 
down  and  shouting  as  lustily  as  any  of  them.  How- 
ever, no  man  was  hurt.  This  go-ahead  sort  of  bull  is 
less  feared,  they  say,  than  the  slow  and  sly  kind.  The 


44  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

sympathy  of  the  audience  is  invariably  on  the  side  of 
pluck  wherever  it  is  shown,  either  in  bull  or  man  ;  the 
element  of  fair  play  is  left  out,  however,  for  the  odds 
are  all  in  the  favor  of  the  men. 

The  vocabulary  of  tauromachy  is  voluminous,  and 
in  Madrid  the  newspaper  reports  of  a  combat  are  as 
packed  with  the  slang  of  the  ring  as  a  report  of  a 
base-ball  match  in  America  is  full  of  "hot  liners," 
"  muffs,"  "  first-base  hits,"  "  foul  tips,"  and  the  like. 
The  popular  admiration  for  an  expert  espada  can 
hardly  be  overstated.  If  he  despatches  the  bull  artis- 
tically, he  is  wildly  cheered,  and  as  he  struts  around 
the  ring  to  acknowledge  the  throng's  plaudits,  the 
excited  spectators  throw  cigars,  fans,  hats,  and  all  sorts 
of  objects  to  the  ground  before  him.  He  picks  up 
and  keeps  the  cigars  and  fans,  and  gravely  tosses  back 
the  hats.  By  the  time  the  corrida  is  over,  the  sun  has 
nearly  set,  and  *t  is  past  the  dinner-hour.  Exhausted 
by  excitement,  the  spectators  go  straight  from  this 
scene  of  blood  and  death  to  their  quiet  homes,  — 
polished  gentlemen,  gentle  ladies,  and  even  little 
children,  —  where  they  sit  down  to  their  dinner,  amid 
a  fine  perfume  of  the  adjacent  mule-stable,  and  talk 
over  the  events  of  the  day. 

To  see  a  horse  wantonly  killed,  no  matter  how 
worthless  a  rawboned  hack  he  may  be,  is  no  fun,  but 
apart  from  that  feature  of  the  sport,  a  bull-fight  is 
thoroughly  enjoyable,  and  after  the  first  shock  is  past 
there  is  a  peculiar  and  exceptional  fascination  about  it. 


First  Bull-fight. 


45 


There  is  nothing  like  it !  The  story  is  told  of  a  certain 
American  \vho  saw  his  first  bull-fight,  in  Madrid,  in 
1 88 1,  and  was  made  quite  sick  by  the  sight  of  so  much 
blood.  He  went  away  with  his  nerves  unstrung  and 
his  appetite  for  beef  gone.  In  order  to  efface  the 
disagreeable  impression  he  retired  to  the  country  for 
a  few  days,  after  expressing  his  abhorrence  for  the 
brutality  of  the  Spaniards  in  no  measured  terms. 
On  the  following  Sunday  he  turned  up  again  at  the 
Plaza  de  Toros,  and  sat  through  the  whole  perform- 
ance, which  he  probably  enjoyed  immensely.  \Ye 
went  twice,  —  the  second  time  in  Madrid.  There  was 
less  sport  there,  however,  than  there  had  been  in 
Burgos.  The  bulls  were  not  so  lively,  and  the  audi- 
ence was  less  demonstrative. 


CHAPTER  V. 

BURGOS   TO    MADRID. 

THERE  are  230  rivers  in  Spain  according  to  one 
authority.  The  Arlanzon,  at  Burgos,  is  a  fair  sample 
of  the  great  majority  of  these  streams,  whose  names 
and  whose  bridges  are  so  much  more  impressive  in 
size  than  themselves.  Along  the  bank  of  the  Arlanzon 
is  the  public  promenade,  called  the  Espolon,  which,  on 
the  evening  of  the  festival,  was  lighted  by  many 
hundreds  of  Chinese  lanterns,  the  paper  exteriors  of 
which  had  an  unfortunate  aptitude  for  taking  fire  and 
burning  up.  There  was  a  great  throng  of  well-behaved 
people  abroad.  The  two  bridges  were  illuminated,  as 
well  as  the  promenade,  and  the  long  lines  of  colored 
lights  made  a  very  pleasant  effect.  Many  little 
"  shows "  were  in  progress  in  tents  and  booths,  and 
there  was  great  animation  and  much  entertainment 
for  the  stranger  whichever  way  he  turned.  The  men 
smoked  cigarettes,  and  the  women  talked,  incessantly. 
This  agreeable  evening  scene  did  something  towards 
effacing  the  unpleasant  impression  Burgos  had  made 
upon  us:  but  —  however  promptly  one  forgets  many 
of  the  bothers  of  travel  after  they  are  past  —  my  nose 
will  long  remind  me  of  the  fragrant  metropolis  of  Old 
Castile ! 


Burgos  to  Madrid. 


47 


The  distance  from  Burgos  to  Madrid  is  363  kilome- 
tres by  rail.  The  express-train  makes  the  run  in 
about  eight  hours,  and  the  first-class  fare  is  about 
$9.  Nothing  more  desolate  can  be  imagined  than  the 
region  through  which  you  pass.  Vast  plains,  almost 
devoid  of  vegetation  and  totally  without  a  tree  of  any 
kind,  huge  gaunt  ridges  and  isolated  peaks  of  bare 
rock,  great  basins  and  val- 
leys stretching  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  reach,  sere 
and  scorched,  encumbered 
with  thousands  of  gray 
bowlders,  but  never  con- 
taining a  village,  a  tree,  a 
blade  of  grass,  or  a  stream 
of  water,  —  nothing  to  re- 
lieve the  sight.  For  hour 
after  hour  the  train  toils 
tediously  along  through 
this  lonesome,  forsaken, 
and  unspeakably  dreary 
expanse.  The  sun  pours 
into  the  carriage  relentlessly ;  not  a  breath  of  air 
can  be  felt ;  the  passengers  fan  themselves  and  at 
each  station  get  out  and  drink  huge  glasses  of  water. 
Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  the  train  would  never  start 
again ;  at  one  station  it  stops  fifteen  minutes ;  at 
another,  half  an  hour ;  at  a  third,  a  full  hour  ;  and 
these  long  stops  are  apparently  without  cause.  No 


48  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

one  knows  why  the  train  does  not  go  on,  and  the 
passengers  do  not  seem  to  care  particularly,  or,  at  all 
events,  they  are  so  well  used  to  this  sort  of  thing  that 
they  take  it  as  a  matter  of  course ;  nothing  surprises 
them.  They  all  have  baskets,  bags,  or  bundles  full 
of  bread,  cheese,  cold  meats,  fruit,  wine,  etc.,  for  they 
know  it  would  be  suicide  to  depend  on  arriving  at  a 
station  where  there  is  a  buffet  at  any  given  hour.  But 
the  Spaniards  are  light  eaters  in  any  case,  and  do  not 
give  much  thought  to  the  subject  of  food.  They  are 
accustomed  to  miserable  fare,  and  would  not  appreciate 
anything  better.  A  more  patient  people  does  not 
exist.  They  are  never  in  a  hurry,  and,  if  you  are,  so 
much  the  worse  for  you. 

Before  reaching  Madrid  the  railway  crosses  the  Sierra 
Guadarrama  and  passes  from  Old,  into  New,  Castile. 
These  mountains  furnish  snow  all  summer  with  which 
to  quench  the  eternal  thirst  of  the  Madrid  people,  who 
use  the  snow  in  lieu  of  ice  in  their  beverages. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MADRID. 

You  are  told  that  the  capital  is  one  of  the  most 
uninteresting  towns  in  the  whole  country.  The  people 
of  the  old  Andalusian  cities,  and  the  thrifty  Catalans, 
despise  the  "  mushroom  metropolis."  Much  that  is  said 
against  Madrid  may  be  true,  but  then 
—  the  picture-gallery  is  there  !  The 
other  cities  may  point  to  the  glories 
of  the  past,  but  the  Museo  is  a  glory 
of  to-day  and  unites  the  proud  past  of 
Spain  with  her  future  possibilities. 
Madrid  is,  it  may  be  admitted,  less 
distinctively  Spanish  in  character  than  the  other  large 
cities,  and  for  that  very  reason  it  is  in  many  respects 
a  more  comfortable  place  of  residence.  It  has 
the  best  hotels  in  Spain,  and  modern  comforts  and 
conveniences  can  be  had  by  paying  for  them.  The 
Fonda  de  la  Paz  indeed  is,  though  expensive,  the  only 
first-rate  hotel  in  Spain,  unless  the  accounts  of  travelers 
are  untrustworthy.  It  has  almost  the  American 
system.  You  pay  so  much  per  diem  for  your  room 
and  your  three  meals,  and  there  is  a  "  secretary, "  who 
comes  very  near  the  American  hotel  "  clerk"  (only  he 
is  not  so  proud  or  so  patronizing),  and  wrho  is  quite 


50  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

constantly  on  hand  in  the  office  to  answer  inquiries 
and  attend  to  the   needs   of  the  guests. 

It  was  very  warm,  and  on  our  arrival  we  were 
exceedingly  tired,  hungry,  and  travel-stained.  The 
large,  airy  room,  with  closely  barred  shutters,  and  a 
couple  of  inviting  high  beds,  looked  like  a  vision  of 
paradise  to  our  jaded  sight.  The  servant  brought  a 
perfumed  bath,  a  delicious  Oriental  luxury,  which  was 
fully  appreciated  ;  and  presently  we  were  seated  on 
a  well-shaded  little  balcony  overlooking  the  gay  and 
glaring  Puerta  del  Sol,  drinking  huge  draughts  of  one 
of  those  marvelous  cooling  beverages  known  only  to 
Madrid,  and  feeling  rejuvenated.  At  the  dinner-table 
there  was  a  still  greater  surprise  for  us  in  the  shape 
of  a  very  tolerable  imitation  of  a  French  bill-of-fare, 
and  the  waiters  spoke  French.  An  acrid  red  wine 
was  served,  which  appeared  to  inflame  rather  than  allay 
the  thirst.  There  were  several  French  people  in  the 
dining-room,  whom  I  took  to  be  commercial  travelers, 
except  one  couple,  who,  if  appearances  are  not  wholly 
deceitful,  were  in  the  theatrical  line.  I  wonder  if 
every  one  who  has  sojourned  at  this  particular  hotel 
in  Madrid  has  as  distinct  a  recollection  of  that  dining- 
room,  and  of  the  little  reading-room  adjoining  it,  as  I 
have  !  For  it  was  there  that  we  heard  of  the  assassi- 
nation of  President  Garfield.  We  were  taking  our 
after-dinner  cup  of  black  coffee,  and  looking  over  the 
journals,  when  the  secretary  came  in,  and  knowing  us 
to  be  Americans,  said  to  us,  in  French,  that  an  attempt 


Madrid.  5 1 

had  been  made  upon  the  life  of  the  President  of  the 
United  States.  We  treated  it  as  a  hoax.  But  the 
evening  newspapers,  loudly  announced  by  shrill-voiced 
newsboys  through  the  great  square,  confirmed  the 
ugly  tidings,  and  later  in  the  evening  word  came  that 
the  President  was  dead.  Would  that  he  had  died 
then,  and  been  spared  that  hideous  summer  of  pain  ! 
Whenever  a  word  of  hostility  towards  Spain  rises  to 
my  lips,  I  think  of  the  manly  sympathy  of  the  Spanish 
people  as  expressed  by  hundreds  of  them  at  that  time, 
and  I  leave  the  word  unspoken.  They  said,  with  pride, 
that  King  Alfonso  had  been  the  first  to  send  a 
message  of  condolence  to  Washington.  It  was  plea- 
sant to  attribute  much  of  the  kindly  interest  shown  by 
the  Spaniards  then  to  a  latent  sympathy  with  demo- 
cratic institutions. 

The  King,  by  the  way,  was  in  town,  so  that  we  could 
not  see  the  interior  of  the  royal  palace,  which,  accord- 
ing to  all  accounts,  does  not  contain  much  to  interest 
the  sight-seer.  His  Majesty  was  to  be  seen  every 
afternoon  riding  out  with  a  modest  retinue.  He  goes 
to  the  monastery  of  Atocha  often  to  attend  religious 
services.  He  is  said  to  be  a  liberal-minded  monarch, 
and  takes  a  great  interest  in  all  subjects  pertaining  to 
the  welfare  of  the  people.  He  reads  the  daily  papers 
of  all  shades  of  opinion  with  a  regularity  which  speaks 
well  for  his  industry,  and  it  should  be  borne  in  mind 
that  the  journals  are  as  outspoken  as  you  please,  for 
the  press  is  practically  free.  The  Prince  of  Wales 


52  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways* 

gracefully  called  Alfonso  "  a  model  king,"  on  the 
occasion  of  his  visit  to  Spain  a  few  years  ago.  The 
favorite  language  in  the  palace  is  German,  in  deference 
to  the  Queen,  but  the  King"  speaks  French  and  English 
also.  Royalty  has  ever  been  accomplished  in  a 
linguistic  way.  We  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
General  Fairchild,  then  United  States  Minister  to 
Spain,  who  exerted  himself  to  render  our  sojourn  in 
Madrid  agreeable.  He  took  us  to  the  beautiful 
garden  of  the  Buen  Retiro,  where  we  met  Senor 
Castellar,  the  stanch  republican,  the  scholar,  orator, 
and  statesman,  who  was  the  friend  of  Charles  Sumner. 
With  admirable  good  sense  and  loyalty,  this  great 
man,  who  compels  the  respect  of  political  adversaries, 
supports  cheerfully  the  present  government,  believing 
that  the  time  for  a  republic  will  come  sooner  or  later, 
but  holding  it  a  crime  to  lift  a  hand  against  a  fellow- 
citizen  in  behalf  of  no  matter  how  beautiful  a  theory. 
In  how  great  need  has  Spain  been  for  many 
generations  past  of  this  kind  of  unselfish  patriotism  ! 
She  has  lost  countless  men  in  civil  war,  rebellion,  and 
revolution,  and  it  is  only  since  the  quite  recent  sup- 
pression of  the  Carlist  war  that  the  country  has  had 
time  to  take  breath  and  count  up  her  losses.  Already 
industry  is  reviving,  and  confidence,  a  plant  of  slow 
growth,  beginning  to  be  restored.  All  that  the  country 
needs  is  peace,  stability,  and  the  consequent  chance  to 
recover  lost  gound.  Seville,  Malaga,  and  Barcelona 
are  growing  rapidly,  and  extending  their  commercial 


Madrid.  53 

relations  on  every  hand.  In  Andalusia  improved 
agricultural  machinery  has  been  introduced  with 
gratifying  results.  The  politicians,  angry  and  jealous 
over  the  French  and  English  conquests  in  Africa,  are 
casting  hungry  eyes  towards  Morocco ;  there  is  no 
reason  why  Spain  should  not  have  a  slice  of  the  African 
pie.  It  would  give  the  young  bloods  in  the  army 
something  to  do. 

The  army,  which  has  always  been  the  too  ready 
tool  of  revolutionists  and  political  intriguers,  is  said  to 
be  no  longer  available  for  such  purposes.  "  The 
soldiers  will  not  fire  on  Spaniards,"  said  a  Sevillian  to 
me.  "  If  a  general  is  found  intriguing  nowadays,  he 
is  taken  out  and  made  an  example  of  at  short  notice." 

General  Fairchild  agreed  with  Castellar,  and  with 
almost  every  intelligent  person,  that  the  advent  of  the 
republican  regime  is  only  a  question  of  time,  that  it 
is  bound  to  come,  but  that  it  will  not  do  to  hurry  it, 
for  the  people  are  in  need  still  of  more  or  less  prepara- 
tion for  the  grave  responsibility  of  self-government. 

Madrid  apes  the  fashions  of  Paris,  and  is  flattered 
to  be  considered  a  good  imitation  of  the  French  cap- 
ital (which  she  is  not),  just  as  Brussels  calls  herself 
the  "  little  Paris,"  and  as  Cincinnati  is  willing1  to  be 
esteemed  the  "  Paris  of  America."  Imitations  are  but 
poor  things  at  best.  Whatever  is  really  of  the  most 
value  in  a  town,  as  in  other  things,  must  be  original. 
The  cafes  of  Madrid  are  numerous,  and  a  few  of  them, 
especially  on  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  the  Calle  de  Alcala*, 


54  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

and  the  Carrera  de  San  Gerdnimo,  are  large  and 
elegant.  Besides  the  cafes,  there  are  cerbezerias 
(beer-halls),  tavernas  (ordinary  bars),  and  horchate- 
rias,  where  they  deal  exclusively  in  the  wonderful 
summer  drink,  the  horchata  de  chufas,  a  sweet,  barley- 
water  mixture,  the  color  of  muddy  milk,  with  snow  in 
it.  It  is  very  wholesome  in  hot  weather,  but  it  is  too 
sweet  to  suit  most  palates.  A  more  attractive  beverage 
is  cerbeza  con  limon,  beer  mixed  with  lemon  juice, 
which  is  brewed,  ice-cold,  in  a  large  punchbowl,  and 
quenches  thirst  excellently.  Then  there  is  agraz, 
described  as  "  clarified  verjus,"  and  highly  recom- 
mended by  Ford  ;  but  I  could  never  get  it  at  any  of 
the  first-class  cafes.  The  first  time  I  ordered  it,  the 
waiter  brought  me  a  glass  of  coffee  ;  the  second  time 
a  cup  of  very  thick  chocolate.  I  was  afraid  to  make 
any  further  experiments  with  the  language,  and 
desisted.  The  Spanish  wines,  high  as  their  reputation 
is,  are  seldom  found  palatable  in  Spain.  All  the  best 
sherry  is  exported,  and  the  same  may  be  said  for  the 
Malaga  and  Tarragona  wines.  The  red  wines  are 
sharp,  and  inflame  thirst.  In  the  South  they  have  on 
the  hotel  tables  a  white  wine,  tasting  like  watered 
sherry.  The  best  standard  table  wine  is  the  Valde- 
pefias,  and  perhaps  also  the  Manzanilla. 

The  lower  classes  drink  a  great  deal  of  agua-ardi- 
ente,  which  may  be  described  as  "  fire-water."  It  has 
an  aromatic  taste,  far  from  disagreeable,  and  turns 
a  cloudy  white  when  mixed  with  water.  The  depraved 


Madrid. 


55 


associations  evoked  by  this  subject  lead  me  to  speak 
of  tobacco.  Don't  go  to  Spain,  O  slave  of  the  weed ! 
supposing  that  because  Cuba  is  a  Spanish  possession 
you  can  get  Havana  cigars  there.  Nine  tenths  of  all 
the  Havana  cigars  go  to  the  United  States ;  but  in 
revenge  you  can  smoke  cigarettes  made  of  Virginia 
tobacco  in  Spain.  They  are  rather  bad  cigarettes,  and 

the  cigars  to  be  got  in  the 

estancos  are  not  much  better, 
as  a  rule.  Occasionally  a 
three-cent  cigar  may  turn 
out  to  be  very  good,  but  the 
expensive  ones  are  invari- 
ably bad. 

The  Puerta  del  Sol  is  by 
all  odds  the  most  interesting 
part  of  Madrid.  A  large 
proportion  of  the  population 
spends  its  days  and  nights 

on  the  broad  sidewalks,  talking  and  laughing  and  mov- 
ing to  and  fro,  —  soldiers,  priests,  bull-fighters,  and 
women,  —  a  motley  crowd.  All  is  animation.  The 
fountain  throws  up  its  jet  of  water  ceaselessly  in  the 
centre  of  the  big  square,  the  horse-cars  come  and  go  in 
four  different  directions,  carriages  dash  here  and  there, 
the  newsboys  and  match-venders  keep  up  an  endless 
racket,  and  above  all  rises  the  murmur  of  a  thousand 
voices.  What  are  they  all  talking  about  ? 

The  Prado  is  the  park.      As  soon  as  the  sun  goes 


56  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

down  everybody  starts  for  the  Prado,  which  includes 
the  Retiro,  or  fashionable  drive,  the  Salon,  where 
swells  afoot  and  on  horseback  air  themselves,  and  the 
charming  garden  of  the  Buen  Retiro.  On  the  Retiro 
you  may  see,  from  half-past  six  till  eight  o'clock, 
a  great  throng  of  fine  equipages,  four  abreast,  the 
whole  length  of  the  drive.  The  Salon  is  a  sort  of 
second-class  Champs  Elysees,  a  shadowy  reminder  of 
the  great  Parisian  avenue.  A  broad  gravel  walk  is 
bordered  by  rows  of  iron  chairs,  in  which  one  may  sit 
(for  a  consideration)  and  look  at  the  promenaders  who 
pass  and  repass  at  a  sedate  gait.  As  for  the  Buen 
Retiro,  it  is  a  pretty  garden  with  trees,  shrubbery, 
winding  pathways,  zinc  palms,  colored  lights,  stirring 
band  music,  out-door  variety-shows,  vaudevilles,  and 
ballets,  —  in  fact,  a  respectable  Jardin  Mabille,  patron- 
ized by  good  society,  and  the  only  place  to  spend 
a  summer  evening  in,  for  of  course  the  theatres  are 
mostly  closed.  It  is  in  such  a  place,  too,  that  you  may 
see  the  Madrilenians  as  they  are  at  home.  They  are 
certainly  a  good-looking  and  well-behaved  people.  A 
few  of  the  women  have  begun  to  wear  hats  and 
bonnets  in  place  of  the  lace  tocas  which  are  so  becom- 
ing, —  a  sad  mistake  on  their  part. 

Of  course  we  went  to  see  the  royal  armory  and  the 
royal  stables.  The  first  contains  I  know  not  how 
many  suits  of  armor  worn  by  Christian  and  Moorish 
heroes  of  old  :  for  that  is  one  of  those  things  I  can- 
not get  excited  over,  though  the  guidebook  call  on  me 


Madrid. 


57 


ever  so  loudly  for  appropriate  emotions.  The  stables 
are  of  great  interest,  however,  for  even  a  republican 
may  admire  the  aristocratic  qualities  of  a  horse  of  high 
pedigree,  and  there  is  no  end  to  the  blooded  pets  of 
Alfonso's  equine  palace.  They  are  English,  French, 
Arabian,  —  a  splendid  lot  of  mettlesome  fellows,  who 
probably  don't  get  enough  exercise.  The  carriages 
are  very  numerous  and  sumptuous,  but  all  except 
those  of  American  make  seem  unneccessarily  heavy 
and  clumsy. 

There  is  one  particular  in  which  Madrid  is  peculiar, 
and  stands  alone  among  European  cities :  she  has  no 
churches  which  the  most  frenzied  tourist  would  wish 
to  visit.  This  gives  her  a  certain  pre-eminence  which 
no  other  feature  could  confer. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    PICTURE-GALLERY. 

UNTIL  within  a  few  years  the  Royal  Museum  of  the 
Prado  has  been  almost  unknown  beyond  the  borders 
of  Spain.  The  immense  value  of  the  collection  is 
beginning  to  be  generally  appreciated,  but  it  remains 
the  most  unfamiliar  among  the  really  great  galleries 
of  Europe.  It  is  called  less  complete,  chronologically, 
than  the  Louvre,  and  so  it  is  ;  but  as  a  collection  of 
masterpieces  it  is  unsurpassed  in  the  world,  and  no 
other  collection  except  that  of  the  Louvre  can  for  one 
moment  be  compared  with  it.  Indeed  I  have  heard 
artists  say  that  even  the  Louvre  looked  rather  tame  to 
them  after  they  had  visited  Madrid.  Apart  from  the 
significant  fact  that  nowhere  else  can  an  adequate  idea 
be  gained  concerning  the  Spanish  school,  the  collection 
is  extremely  rich  in  its  Italian  and  Dutch  departments. 
The  great  room  known  as  the  Salon  of  Queen  Isabella 
contains  the  principal  masterpieces  of  all  the  schools, 
without  distinction,  and  I  doubt  if  there  is  another 
roomfull  like  it  in  the  world. 

The  gallery  is  in  the  Prado,  and  is  approached  from 
the  centre  of  the  town  through  the  Carrera  de  San 
Gerdnimo,  where  is  the  palace  of  the  Cortes  —  a 
handsome  building  —  and  an  interesting  statue  of 


The  Picture  -  Gallery.  5  9 

Cervantes.  An  excellent  catalogue,  in  French,  exists, 
and  on  weekdays  there  is  a  nominal  admittance  fee  of 
ten  cents,  but  on  Sundays  the  galleries  are  free.  The 
large  central  hall  is  well-lighted  from  the  top,  but  the 
side  rooms  are  ill-lighted,  and  should  be  seen  at  certain 
hours  when  the  light  is  best.  The  Spanish  school 
must  first  claim  our  attention.  As  for  numbers,  there 
are  sixty-four  examples  of  Velasquez,  forty-six  of 
Murillo,  fifty-eight  of  Ribera,  fourteen  of  Zurbaran, 
eighteen  of  Macip,  or  (Joanes),  a  roomfull  of  Goya's 
paintings,  and  a  considerable  number  by  Cano. 

If  we  take  Murillo,  Velasquez,  Ribera,  Goya,  and 
the  rest  of  the  famous  Spanish  painters  for  true  expo- 
nents of  the  national  characteristics,  many  preconceived 
notions  must  be  upset ;  these  are  a  most  saturnine, 
sober,  sad  folk.  Their  pleasures  are  grotesque  and 
fierce,  their  humor  impish  and  rough.  An  under- 
current of  gloom  runs  through  all  their  merry-making, 
as  a  barbaric  minor  strain  is  heard  in  the  midst  of  their 
gayest  music. 

Velasquez  is  very  justly  the  favorite  of  painters. 
So  full  of  the  subtle  modern  flavor  are  his  works,  that 
it  is  hard  to  realize  that  he  died  more  than  two  cen- 
turies ago.  No  man  ever  made  a  more  abrupt  "  new 
departure "  in  the  way  of  looking  at  things.  The 
Spaniards  always  painted  as  literally  as  they  knew 
how,  even  the  most  ideal  of  subjects,  but  they  were 
rigidly  formal,  and  only  copied  the  weaknesses  of  the 
Italians,  their  native  strength  running  to  brutality  and 


60  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

harshness.  It  remained  for  Velasquez  to  combine 
force  with  refinement,  and  freedom  with  firmness,  after 
his  own  manner.  It  would  be  almost  impossible  to 
convey  a  satisfactory  idea  of  his  very  numerous  paint- 
ings monopolized  by  this  gallery.  His  portraits  are 
superb  for  their  vigor,  genuineness,  and  verve,  the 
absence  of  any  trickery  or  superficiality.  They  have 
a  truly  patrician  flavor,  like  Van  Dyck's  portraits,  and 
such  as  is  eminently  appropriate  in  the  likenesses  of 
royal  heirs,  kings,  and  princesses  of  high  degree ;  but 
their  greatest  charm  is  inexplicable,  as  is  always  the 
case  with  the  best  works  of  art.  Simplicity  and  sin- 
cerity, with  great  learning  and  skill  of  hand  —  that  is 
all  there  is  of  Velasquez.  "  The  Topers"  ("Los  Bebe- 
dores")  is  as  marvelous  a  specimen  of  technical  per- 
fection as  any  of  his  works.  It  is  one  of  those  pictures 
in  front  of  which  an  artist  halts  and  makes  confession 
that  he  does  not  know  how  to  paint.  Conviviality  was 
never  represented  with  greater  truth  or  humor.  The 
spirit  of  Bacchus  is  over  all  the  scene.  It  is  full  of 
human  nature  in  its  pagan  aspect,  rollicking  in  the  joy 
of  exuberant  physical  life.  It  is  a  drinking-song  in 
color,  a  "rouse,"  a  jolly  "  time,"  anything  but  a  tem- 
perance tract.  Still  its  humor  saves  it  from  grossness. 
Velasquez  was  incapable  of  vulgarity.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  could  paint  nobility  in  a  dwarf,  and  give 
dignity  to  commonplace  figures.  The  picture  of  "  The 
Spinners, "  a  splendid  composition,  representing 
women  at  work  in  a  large  weaving-room,  is  worthy  to 


The  Picture  -  Gallery.  6 1 

be  rated  equal  \vith  "The  Topers,"  and  Mengs  said  of 
it,  very  happily,  that  it  seemed  as  if  it  had  been  the 
work  of  pure  thought.  "  Las  Meninas  "  (''The  Maids 
of  Honor")  is  one  of  the  most  celebrated  of  this  happy 
man's  works.  "  O,  if  I  could  only  paint  like  that,  I 
would  be  satisfied  to  leave  one  such  picture  to  the 
world !  "  said  an  artist.  It  represents  Velasquez  him- 
self in  his  studio,  as  he  was  painting  the  portrait  of 
the  charming  little  Infanta  Maria  Margarita,  whose 
maids  are  grouped  about  her.  There  are  eight  or  ten 
figures,  and  on  the  walls  are  pictures  which  are  said  to 
have  been  Rubens's.  The  composition  is  full  of  his- 
toric interest.  Sir  W.  Stirling  Maxwell,  in  a  capital 
description  of  it,  gives  the  names  of  all  the  characters, 
and  many  entertaining  details.  "  The  dresses,"  he 
says,  "are  highly  absurd,  their  figures  being  concealed 
by  long  stiff  corsets  and  prodigious  hoops."  But 
who,  once  having  seen  the  picture,  would  wish  it  to  be 
otherwise  in  any  particular  ?  The  King,  and  Giordano 
the  Italian,  who  was  at  that  period  painting  in  Madrid, 
conspired  to  make  "  Las  Meninas  "  one  of  the  most 
famous  paintings  of  all  time :  the  former,  by  seizing  a 
brush  and  painting  the  Cross  of  Santiago  upon  the 
breast  of  the  figure  of  Velasquez,  the  latter,  by  calling 
the  picture  the  "  theology  of  painting."  Both  compli- 
ments were  remarkable,  though  the  latter  has  more 
sound  than  sense,  but  nothing  ever  turned  Velasquez's 
head ;  he  was  used  to  royal  favors,  and  probably  knew 
he  deserved  them.  He  has  made  Philip  IV's  face  and 


62  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

figure  familiar  to  posterity  in  all  sorts  of  becoming 
expressions,  attitudes,  and  costumes,  and  it  is  easy  to 
imagine  how  delightful  as  a  loafing-place  the  monarch 
found  his  studio.  It  is  not  my  intention  to  speak  in 
detail  of  the  famous  "  Capture  of  Breda "  ("  Las 
Lanzas"),  or  of  "Vulcan's  Forge."  Among  the  por- 
traits there  is  not  one  which  is  not  interesting  as  a 
faithful  description  of  a  real  person,  from  that  of  the 
blithe  little  Prince  Balthazar-Charles,  who  rides  his 
pot-bellied  pony  with  such  easy  grace,  to.  the  picture 
of  the  most  grotesque  dwarf  in  Philip's  court.  The 
quality  is  always  there,  and  can  be  felt.  It  is  the 
rarest  talent  to  paint  portraits  well.  There  are  so 
many  bad  portraits  in  the  world  !  —  so  many  libels  on 
individuals,  and  so  many  caricatures  of  humanity  in 
general,  —  no  wonder  that  Eugene  Fromentin  can 
count  on  his  fingers  the  great  portraitists  of  the 
world. *  The  men  of  to-day  are  turning  to  Velasquez 
to  see  what  he  can  teach  them  in  the  province  of 
portrait-painting.  And  they  are  right.  Bonnat  and 
Carolus  Durah  are  well  enough  in  their  way,  but  they 
themselves,  if  frankly  asked  for  advice,  would  say  to 
the  young  men,  "  Go  to  the  fountain-heads.  The 
Louvre  is  better  than  the  Salon.  The  old  masters 
knew  how  better  than  the  best  of  us."  None  of  them 
had  what  Fromentin  calls  "  cette  naivete  attentive, 
soumise  et  forte,"  which  the  study  of  the  human  face 

-  Titian,  Rembrandt,   Raphael,  Sebastian    del    Piombo,    Velasquez,    Van     Dyck,    Holbein, 
Antoine  More. 


The  Picture  -  Gallery.  63 

requires  in  order  to  be  perfect,  in  so  great  a  degree 
as  Velasquez.  Only  a  painter  can  appreciate  such 
triumphs  as  "  Los  Bebedores  "  and  "  Las  Meninas." 
Velasquez's  genuis  was  more  robustly  masculine  than 
that  of  Murillo,  but  if  it  excels  in  force,  directness,  and 
accurate  brilliancy  of  characterization,  it  lacks  the  sweet 
and  almost  feminine  quality  of  the  other's  religious 
compositions.  His  realism  is  always  of  the  refined 
sort,  never  brutal,  never  pretentious.  He  has  an 
intensely  original  and  distinguished  style.  By  looking 
at  any  one  of  his  portraits,  one  can  guess  his  personal 
refinement,  his  cultivated  mind,  his  rectitude  and 
strength  of  character.  His  taste  was  never  at  fault. 
His  intelligence  never  forsook  him.  His  manual  skill 
was  equal  to  the  immense  demands  made  upon  it.  He 
had  his  materials  apparently  under  perfect  control,  or 
as  nearly  so  as  may  be.  And  he  not  only  controlled 
his  means  :  he  controlled  his  subject  also.  His  model 
never  entirely  ran  away  with  him  ;  he  always  managed 
to  work  in  a  little  of  Velasquez.  His  observation  was 
more  developed  than  his  imagination,  but  his  insight 
was  keen,  he  analyzed  people  and  things  with  a  good 
deal  of  penetration,  and  as  he  was  well-off,  healthy, 
and  happy,  his  art  is  sane,  alert,  cheerful.  In  this 
regard  he  was  different  from  all  his  contemporaries, 
and  remains  unique. 

Murillo,  with  less  command  of  technique,  had  the 
soft  heart  of  a  woman,  and  the  capacity  of  feeling  the 
spiritual  anguish  of  the  Virgin  as  few  painters  ever  did 


64  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

before  or  since.  No  sceptic  could  look  upon  one  of 
the  two  great  "  Immaculate  Conceptions,"  in  the  main 
gallery,  without  a  deep  respect  (to  say  the  least)  for  the 
motive  of  the  work  as  well  as  for  the  lovable  human 
qualities  of  the  painter  who  could  thus  portray  the 
sweetness  and  innocence  of  womanhood.  I  am  aware 
that  Murillo  has  been  placed  in  the  second  rank  of  artists 
by  Ruskin  and  some  other  critics  ;  but  I  doubt  if  they 
were  familiar  with  his  best  works  when  they  so  unjustly 
estimated  him.  The  big  "  Assumption,"  in  the  Louvre, 
does  not  represent  him  at  his  highest  level,  though  it 
is  one  of  his  "  important"  canvases.  One  of  the  two 
large  paintings  of  the  same  subject  in  the  Madrid 
gallery  is  so  entirely  apart  from  the  conventional  Virgin, 
whose  meek  expression  and  upturned  eyes  are  so 
often  reproduced,  that  it  seems  at  first  almost  an 
infraction  of  the  unwritten  laws  governing  ecclesiastical 
art.  There  is  a  human  air  about  it,  and  presently  you 
begin  to  feel  that  if  there  exists  a  Holy  Virgin  you 
have  now  seen  her  real  self.  Not  that  there  is  less  of 
innocence  and  tenderness  and  sanctified  beauty  in  this 
case  —  but  a  more  human  type,  and  a  younger,  fresher, 
and  more  recognizable  countenance  brings  the  mystery 
closer  to  you.  This  is  a  much  better  work  in  concep- 
tion, if  not  in  execution,  than  the  "  Immaculate  Con- 
ception," in  the  Square  Hall  of  the  Louvre.  There  is 
more  character  in  the  face  of  the  Virgin,  though  I 
cannot  agree  with  those  who  find  the  other  insipid  and 
commonplace.  In  his  love  of  the  beautiful,  and  in  his 


The  Picture -Gallery.  65 

grace,  religious  earnestness  and  tenderness,  Murillo 
was  pre-eminent,  —  how  completely  so  can  hardly  be 
appreciated  without  visiting  both  Madrid  and  Seville. 
In  the  "Divine  Shepherd"  is  a  beautiful  type  of 
guileless  childhood,  with  much  of  the  quality  of  naivete, 
both  in  the  character  of  the  subject  and  in  its  treat- 
ment. The  same  quality  is  seen  in  the  "  Christ  and 
St.  John."  The  great  picture  of  the  "  Vision  of  Saint 
Anthony  of  Padua  "  is  in  Seville,  and  I  shall  speak  of 
it  further  on.  The  Academy  of  Arts  and  Sciences  in 
Madrid  possesses  several  of  Murillo's  most  esteemed 
paintings,  one  of  which,  "  St.  Elizabeth  "  dressing  the 
sores  of  the  poor,  is  called  his  greatest  work  ;  it  is 
a  very  marvelous  canvas,  and  technically  perhaps  his 
greatest  performance,  but  the  subject  is  most  repulsive. 
Ribera  was  a  very  strong  painter  in  every  respect, 
and  in  spite  of  his  long  residence  in  Italy,  his  works 
are  particularly  national,  and  are  valuable  for  their 
illustration  of  marked  Spanish  tendencies.  He  was 
predisposed  to  take  the  tragic  view,  and  liked  to 
depict  such  episodes  and  subjects  as  the  flaying  of  St. 
Bartholomew,  Ixion  on  the  wheel,  etc.  Some  of  hjs 
works  are  unutterably  gloomy  and  dark,  both  in  color 
and  motive.  In  his  "  Prometheus"  he  shows  you  the 
blood  and  intestines  of  the  victim,  painted  with  revolt- 
ing fidelity.  His  "  Jacob's  Ladder,"  in  the  salon  of 
Queen  Isabella,  is  considered  his  greatest  work,  and  it 
is,  in  fact,  remarkable  in  expressional  power.  But  the 
most  impressive  example  of  this  master,  who  was  said 


66  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

to  employ  every  means  to  crush  out  his  rivals,  not 
hesitating  at  murder,  is  a  representation  of  the  "  Holy 
Trinity."  A  beautiful  and  venerable  head  is  that  of 
the  Father,  a  calm,  sad  old  man  with  white  hair,  an 
ample  beard,  and  a  Roman  nose.  This  head  is  pro- 
jected against  a  luminous  space  in  the  centre  of  a 
cloudy  background.  Below  is  the  crucified  Son,  his 
head  falling  back  on  the  Father's  knee,  his  arms  out- 
stretched, and  the  lower  part  of  his  body,  which  is 
modeled  with  exceptional  power,  is  borne  up  by  a 
sheet  held  by  cherubs.  The  deathly  pallor  of  his 
countenance,  the  gaping  wound  in  his  side,  and  the 
rigidity  of  his  limbs,  expressed  marvelously,  contribute 
to  the  feeling  of  painful  truth  which  is  conveyed  by 
this  great  work.  Just  above  the  head  of  the  Christ  is 
a  white  dove  with  outstretched  wings  representing  the 
Holy  Spirit. 

But  Goya  even  surpassed  Ribera  in  his  realistic 
descriptions  of  horrible  events  and  scenes.  His  works 
are  set  apart  in  a  special  room,  and  are  supposed  to 
form  a  complete  exposition  of  the  strangely  pictur- 
esque manners  and  customs  of  the  Spaniards.  Gautier 
gives  a  charming  chapter  about  this  odd  genius.  He 
painted  with  sticks,  brooms,  sponges  —  any  tool  that 
served  his  purpose,  and  "  donnait  les  touches  de  sen- 
timent a  grands  coups  de  pouce."*  His  "Second  of 
May,"  which  represented  French  soldiers  massacring 

*  Though  there  is  nothing  new  about  this  except  the  phrase  "  touches  de  sentiment,"  which 
is  intensely  Gautieresque. 


The  Picture -Gallery.  67 

the  Spanish  inhabitants,  is  said  to  have  been  blocked 
in  with  a  spoon.  He  was  a  violent  satirist,  and  set 
forth  the  fanaticism,  gluttony,  and  stupidity  of  the 
monks,  the  ignorance  and  vices  of  the  courtiers,  the 
follies  of  polite  society,  with  extraordinary  and  malig- 
nant force.  His  ideal  caprices  are  like  the  nightmares 
produced  by  a  morbid  fancy,  and  are  frightful  beyond 
description.  His  pictures  of  bull-fights  are  numerous, 
and  marked  by  an  exceedingly  impressive  compound 
of  realism  and  strange  conceits.  He  painted  many 
war-scenes,  as  horrible  as  the  most  unbridled  imagina- 
tion could  make  them.  An  erratic  cynicism  pervaded 
all  his  works,  which  exercise  a  certain  grim  fascination 
over  the  mind  of  the  spectator.  He  painted  portraits 
very  well,  and  his  equestrian  portraits  of  Charles  IV 
and  his  wife  are  admirable  serious  works.  A  portrait 
of  Goya  himself,  by  Lopez,  shows  him  to  have  been 
a  broad-faced  old  gentleman,  whose  good-humored  and 
well-fed  appearance  is  quite  at  variance  with  the  idea 
of  him  gained  from  a  contemplation  of  his  works. 
Alonso  Cano  is  fairly  represented  in  the  gallery  by 
a  picture  of  the  Virgin  worshiping  her  Son,  and  a 
"  Dead  Christ  Mourned  by  Angels";  but  we  shall  see 
more  of  him  in  his  native  city  of  Granada,  where  he 
was  equally  renowned  as  a  painter  and  sculptor.  Cano, 
like  Ribera,  had  the  reputation  of  putting  out  of  the 
way  people  whom  he  did  not  like.  He  was  accused  of 
murdering  his  wife.  It  seems  to  have  been  quite  the 
fashion  among  the  seventeenth-century  Spanish  artists 


68  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

to  remove  in  a  summary  manner  all  real  or   fancied 
obstacles  to  their  success. 

After  this  outline  survey  of  the  Spanish  masters, 
who  at  least  make  a  stranger  feel  some  respect  for 
their  country,  let  us  take  a  look  at  the  Italians.  Think 
of  forty-three  Titians!  What  a  glorious  collection1 
It  is  indescribable.  The  schools  of  Venice,  Florence, 
Rome,  Parma,  Bologna,  Naples,  —  all  are  represented ; 
but  the  chief  strength  lies  in  the  great  Venetian  school 
with  its  forty-three  Titians,  its  thirty-four  Tintorets, 
its  twenty-five  Paul  Veroneses,  and  its  crowd  of  Del 
Piombos,  Malombras,  and  Tiepolos.  Then,  for  the 
other  schools,  there  is  Raphael  with  ten  examples  of 
prime  importance,  Guido  Reni  with  sixteen  canvases, 
Luca  Giordano  with  sixty-six,  and  an  uneven  but 
strongly  interesting  lot  of  Da  Vincis,  Del  Sartos, 
Correggios,  and  the  rest.  Among  the  ten  canvases 
by  Raphael  is  the  holy  family  known  as  "  The  Pearl." 
It  was  so  named  by  Philip  IV.  It  was  formerly  owned 
by  Charles  I  of  England,  and  was  disposed  of  by 
Cromwell  with  the  rest  of  the  royal  rubbish.  It 
brought  $10,000  at  that  time.  If  at  present  $200,000 
is  asked  for  the  Raphael  exhibited  in  New  York,  what 
would  4t  The  Pearl "  not  be  worth  to  our  famishing 
museums  at  that  rate  of  valuation  ?  Then  there  is  the 
same  master's  "  Spasimo  di  Sicilia,"  representing  Jesus 
succumbing  under  the  weight  of  the  cross  and  sus- 
tained by  Simon  ;  the  "  Visitation,"  representing  St. 
Elizabeth  and  the  Virgin  ;  the  well-known  Madonnas 


The  Picture -Gallery.  69 

of  the  Fish  and  of  the  Rose  ;  with  his  Holy  Family  of 
the  Lamb  and  his  portrait  of  the  Cardinal  Julius  de 
Medici.  Titian's  "  Offering  to  the  Goddess  of  Love," 
an  ill-balanced  composition,  is  remarkable  for  its  crowd 
of  hilarious  and  beautiful  infants  ;  but  there  is  nothing 
more  captivating  than  his  portraits,  the  portrait  of 
himself  for  instance,  or  the  famous  portraits  of  Charles 
V  on  foot  and  on  horseback.  In  fact  the  number  of 
really  great  portraits  in  the  Madrid  gallery  is  astonish- 
ing. Some  of  Titian's  best  works  are  here,  and  there 
are  none  better.  The  model  for  his  Salome,  who 
bears  the  head  of  John  the  Baptist  on  a  charger,  was 
his  daughter  Lavinia. 

The  Dutch  and  Flemish  department  is  quite  as 
remarkable  as  one  would  expect  to  find  it,  even  in 
the  national  gallery  of  Spain.  There  are  sixty-six 
examples  of  Rubens,  twenty-two  of  Van  Dyck,  fifty- 
five  of  Teniers,  fifty-four  of  Breughel,  and  a  few  of 
Rembrandt's,  Jordaens's,  Wouvermans's,  and  Bosch's 
works,  forming  a  priceless  collection.  The  represen- 
tation of  Rubens  is  superior  to  that  in  the  Louvre, 
and  includes  some  of  his  most  fleshly  creations,  —  once 
modestly  stowed  away  in  the  basement,  but  now  dis- 
played in  the  main  gallery.  They  are  superb,  these 
human  animals  of  his,  and  appeal  to  all  that  is  pagan 
in  the  most  civilized  Christian  nature.  The  humor  in 
Teniers's  group  of  six  paintings,  depicting  monkeys 
dressed  in  the  costumes  of  men,  and  engaged  in  eating, 
drinking,  smoking,  playing  at  school,  and  aping  the 


jo  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

postures  and  expressions  of  painters  and  sculptors,  is 
simply  irresistible.  How  stirring  are  the  breezy  hunt- 
ing-scenes of  Wouvermans,  how  fresh  and  gallant  his 
figures  of  cavaliers  and  dames,  who  sweep  gayly  down 
a  slope  in  pursuit  of  some  unseen  hare  !  I  remember 
particularly  one  of  these  scenes  which  impressed  me 
with  all  the  newness  and  joy  of  a  spring  morning,  a 
sense  of  the  immense  happiness  of  living,  and  of 
being  young  ;  yet  I  do  not  remember  the  composition 
itself  with  sufficient  distinctness  to  describe  it.  It  was 
merely  the  flavor  and  the  gusto  of  the  thing.  Some 
of  Van  Dyck's  most  spirited  and  patrician  portraits  are 
here ;  among  them  those  of  the  Duchess  of  Oxford, 
of  the  artist  himself,  and  his  patron,  the  Count  of 
Bristol,  of  Liberti,  the  organist  of  Antwerp,  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange,  Henry  of  Nassau,  of  Henry,  Count 
of  Bergh,  and  of  the  painter  David  Ryckaert.  For 
the  full-lengths  Van  Dyck  used  to  ask  $300!  Our 
modern  portrait-painters  are  not  so  badly  off  as  they 
think,  after  all.  A  head  of  Christ,  wearing  the  crown 
of  thorns,  is  the  only  serious  work,  setting  aside  the 
portraits,  which  can  be  called  powerful  and  original ; 
it  is  thoroughly  manly  in  character,  —  one  of  the 
strongest  and  least  diluted  of  Van  Dyck's  works. 

In  the  French  room  there  is  not  much  that  is 
remarkable.  Good  specimens  of  Poussin,  Claude, 
David,  Watteau,  Ingres,  Largilliere,  are  to  be  seen,  but 
many  great  names  are  missing.  There  are  twenty 
Poussins  and  ten  Claudes.  One  of  the  Claudes 


The  Picture -Gallery.  71 

("  Paysage,  la  Madeleine  a  genoux,  le  matin  ")  is  well 
worthy  to  be  hung  where  it  is,  among  the  rarest 
masterpieces  in  the  Queen's  salon,  for,  though  very 
much  blackened  by  age,  it  is  a  perfect  example  of  the 
sombre  and  mysterious  classical  landscape  at  its  best, 
making  the  beholder  dream  of  grand  old  forests  and 
cool  shadows  and  glimpses  of  an  infinitely  remote  sky, 
just  touched  by  the  first  faint  reflections  of  the  dawn, 
long  after  he  has  passed  the  smoky  old  canvas  and 
departed  from  the  silent  gallery. 

There  may  be  more  complete,  more  symmetrical 
collections  of  pictures,  but  there  can  be  none  better. 
It  was  a  long  time  before  we  could  tear  ourselves  away 
from  Madrid.  Every  morning  by  common  consent  we 
turned  our  steps  towards  the  Museo,  and  spent  many 
long  and  blissful  hours  there,  till  our  eyes  ached,  and 
our  spinal  columns  cried  out  for  a  rest.  And  how 
many  times  since  have  we,  in  memory,  \vandered 
through  these  enchanted  halls,  recalling  each  favorite 
picture,  and  renewing  the  purest  pleasures  of  a 
lifetime ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MADRID   TO    SEVILLE. 

ANDALUSIA  is  repre- 
sented to  be  an  earthly 
paradise.  Its  climate  in 
July  is  such  as  we  are 
accustomed  to  associate 
with  an  entirely  different 
locality.  The  journey 
from  Madrid  to  Seville 
occupies  fourteen  hours, 
and  is  best  taken  at 
night.  The  express- 
train  goes  three  times 
a  week.  Leaving  Mad- 
rid at  six  o'clock  p.  M., 
after  an  unusually  early 
dinner,  you  are  enabled 
to  see  all  that  you  wish 
to  see  of  La  Mancha,  the 
scene  of  some  of  Don 
Quixote's  adventures,*  an  indescribably  dreary  desert, 
in  comparison  with  which  even  the  gaunt  and  forlorn 


*  Mr.  Waterman  calls  his  illustration  "  A  Veritable  Spanish  Windmill."     This  has  reference 
to  Gustave  Dore"s  spurious  Spanish  windmills,  which  are  of  an  entirely  different  pattern. 


Madrid  to  Seville.  73 

wastes  of  New  Castile  are  cheerful  and  luxuriant.  It  is 
literally  true,  as  Washington  Irving  says,  that  it  is  "  a 
stern,  melancholy  country,  with  rugged  mountains  and 
long,  sweeping  plains,  destitute  of  trees  and  indescrib- 
ably silent  and  lonesome,  partaking  of  the  savage  and 
solitary  character  of  Africa."  But  there  is  no  longer 
any  spice  of  danger  from  banditti,  as  there  was  fifty-odd 
years  ago,  when  Irving  made  his  romantic  pilgrimage 
to  the  Alhambra.  The  great  heat,  the  miserable  food, 
the  tormenting  fleas,  the  nauseating  odors,  and  the 
importunate  beggars  cannot  be  dignified  under  the 
name  of  dangers,  and  there  is  nothing  romantic  about 
the  railway-trains  of  Spain,  be  they  ever  so  slow.  At 
nine  in  the  evening  the  train  halts  at  the  station  of 
Alcazar  de  San  Juan,  and  the  passengers  indulge  in 
the  chocolate  and  sponge-cake  for  which  the  place  is 
renowned.  After  this  harmless  lunch  the  traveler 
settles  himself  for  the  night,  and  is  lulled  to  sleep  by 
the  monotonous  motion  and  rattle  of  the  train.  There 
are  no  sleeping-cars  on  the  lines  south  of  Madrid,  but 
there  are  expensive  reclining-chairs,  or  what  the 
French  call  fauteuil-lits.  It  is  generally  safe  for  men 
to  trust  to  luck  for  a  couple  of  seats  in  a  first-class 
carriage,  where  the  human  form  divine  can  be  extended 
nearly  at  full  length,  and  the  hand-bag  or  bundle  of 
wraps  utilized  as  a  pillow.  It  is  best  not  to  say  much 
about  the  personal  appearance  in  the  morning  of  the 
individual  who  sleeps  in  this  way.  At  six  A.  M.,  the 
train  comes  to  a  standstill  in  Cordova,  and  there  is 


74 


Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 


time  to  get  out  and  take  a  cup  of  so-called  coffee. 
The  exquisite  maiden  who  so  bewitched  the  susceptible 
De  Amicis  at  this  ancient  place  has  departed.  She  lives 
in  Burgos  now,  I  believe.  Cordova  from  the  railway 


looks  very  sleepy  and  insignificant  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, —  a  stretch  of  low,  white  walls,  with  square  towers 
here  and  there,  and  the  Graeco-Roman  tower  of  the 
cathedral  dominating  the  town.  The  train  now  follows 
the  course  of  the  Guadalquivir,  and  runs  alongside  of 
immense  hedges  of  rank,  dusty  cactus,  and  one  catches 
glimpses  of  strange  southern  forms  of  vegetation 
formerly  unknown  ;  for  we  are  fairly  in  the  marvelous 
beau  pays  of  which  we  have  read  so  much.  But  though 
Andalusia  is  described  with  so  much  vague  enthusiasm, 
it  is  a  beau  pays  only  in  comparison  with  the  ugly 
interior  provinces.  Near  Seville,  the  train  passes 
through  a  long  succession  of  extensive  olive  plantations. 
As  a  shade-tree  the  olive-tree  is  not  a  success,  but  it  is 
better  than  nothing.  The  foliage  is  dusty  and  pale, 
and  the  trees  have  a  stunted  and  forlorn  appearance ; 


to  Seville.  75 

they  are  planted  in  regular  rows,  and  the  berries, 
which  are  not  gathered  until  towards  winter,  are  almost 
all  made  into  oil.  At  all  the  stations  big  placards 
freshly  posted  up  announced  a  grand  bull-fight  of 
extraordinary  interest  at  Malaga  the  following  Sunday. 
Espadas  and  picadores  from  Madrid,  Seville,  Cordova, 
and  other  towrns  were  to  participate  ;  bulls  from  Senor 
's  breeding- farm  would  be  introduced  ;  and  excur- 

o 

sion-trains  wrere  to  be  run  from  several  distant  points. 
These  posters  excited  no  small  degree  of  interest  on 
the  part  of  the  passengers,  who  read  and  reread  them 
and  then  discussed  the  prospects.  It  was  growing 
frightfully  hot,  and  the  courteous  caballeros  in  our 
coupe  began  to  discard  garment  after  garment,  until 
we  became  anxious  least  they  should  be  entirely  nude 
by  the  time  we  arrived  in  Seville.  But  no  such  thrill- 
ing incident  happened.  We  are  at  last  in  the  gay 
Andalusian  metropolis,  at  nine  o'clock  of  a  blistering, 
scalding  day,  and  —  O  joy  !  —  the  porter  of  the  Four 
Nations  Hotel  has  captured  us  with  a  few  words  of 
pigeon-English  which  we  are  too  tired  to  resist. 

"  You  have  come  off  Madrid  ?"  he  says,  after  res- 
cuing the  trunk,  expanding  his  mouth  in  a  sociable 
smile. 

"  Yes." 

"  Ah!     You  are  English?" 

"  No." 

"  Ah  !     You  are  Americans  ?  " 

"  Yes." 


j6  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

The  clever  Jose  is  pleased  with  his  own  penetration, 
and  continues  to  talk  all  the  way  up  to  the  hotel,  which 
is  on  a  great  square  full  of  tall*  palm-trees,  where  three 
consolidated  bands  give  concerts  on  summer  evenings. 
After  the  intolerable  heat  of  the  streets,  the  marble- 


paved  patio  of  the  hotel  seems  a  deliciously  cool  and 
pleasant  spot.  The  men  sitting  about  are  smoking 
cigarettes,  drinking  coffee,  reading  the  papers  a  little, 
loafing,  and  gossiping,  without  the  slightest  pretense 
of  doing  anything  more  fatiguing  than  to  draw  the 
breath  of  life.  We  are  shown  to  a  room  by  the  ener- 
getic Jose,  and  after  a  bite  of  breakfast  we  proceed  to 
make  ourselves  as  comfortable  as  the  circumstances 
will  permit  —  for  the  thermometer  indicates  a  degree 
of  heat  equal  to  98°  Fahrenheit.  The  process  is  quite 


Madrid  to  Seville. 


77 


simple :  we  remove  all  our  clothes  except  our  shirts, 
and  sit  with  our  feet  in  basins  full  of  water.  A  cigar 
and  a  French  novel  —  say  by  Cherbuliez  —  make  the 
arrangement  complete.  There  is  a  monotonous  hum 
of  female  voices  just  outside  the  door,  where  a  group 
of  women  are  sitting  at  their  needlework  in  the  cor- 
ridor, and  the  intermittent  music  of  a  guitar  floats 
from  some  unseen  patio  ;  so  presently  we  fall  asleep. 
Thus  we  pass  our  first  day  in  Seville. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SEVILLE. 

SEVILLE  is  undoubtedly  the  most  Spanish  of  all 
Spanish  towns.  The  boastful  native  couplet  which 
declares  that  — 

"  Quien  no  ha  visto  a  Sevilla, 
No  ha  visto  a  maravilla," 

is  true  enough,  and  if  a  traveler  could  only  see  one 
city   in   Spain   he  would  do  well  to  select  the  gay, 


growing,  and  thriving  Seville  in  preference  to  all  the 
rest.  The  streets  are  very  narrow  and  crooked,  and 
the  houses  are  all  either  whitewashed  or  painted  a 
very  light  pink,  blue,  or  green  shade,  which  contributes 


Seville.  79 

not  a  little  to  the  intolerable  glare.  In  some  of  the 
streets  awnings  are  suspended  from  roof  to  roof,  so 
that  you  may  drive  under  a  canopy  for  some  little 
distance  protected  from  the  sun's  rays.  The  houses 
have  patios,  or  interior  courts,  surrounded  by  balconies, 
and  in  the  dwellings  of  the  rich  these  are  very  beauti- 
ful, being  paved  with  marble  tiles  and  ornamented 
by  tropical  trees  and  plants,  fountains,  and  flowers. 
The  open-work  iron  gates  leading  from  the  street  to 
the  patios  permit  the  passer-by  to  obtain  charming 
glimpses  of  these  refreshing  spots.  Having  rested  all 
day,  we  went  out  after  nightfall,  and  viewed  the  place 
by  lamplight,  with  Jose  for  our  guide.  The  principal 
street  is  a  crooked  way  about  twenty  feet  wide,  lined 
with  brilliantly  lighted  cafes  and  clubs,  stores,  places 
of  amusement,  tavernas,  etc.,  and  thronged  with 
people.  The  big  Plaza  Nueva,  to  which  reference  has 
been  made,  is  also  thronged  with  a  constantly  moving 
crowd,  lingering  till  long  after  midnight,  affording  an 
unequaled  opportunity  to  study  the  population  in  one 
of  its  most  characteristic  aspects.  There  is  not  half  as 
much  chattering  and  chaffing  as  would  be  observed  in 
a  French  crowd  of  the  same  dimensions ;  every  one  is 
talking,  but  in  a  staid  and  reserved  fashion,  and  it  is 
rare  to  hear  an  outburst  of  laughter.  The  shrill  cry  of 
the  aguadores,  "  Quien  quiere  agua?"  is  heard  on 
every  hand,  and  they  drive  a  brisk  trade.  The  bands 
play  some  strange  Castilian  airs,  unlike  anything  you 
have  ever  heard  before,  while  you  wait  in  vain  to  hear 


8o 


Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 


a  familiar  strain  from  "Carmen"  or  ''II  Barbiere," 
which  would  seem  so  appropriate  to  the  time  and 
place.  On  this  square  is  the  ayuntamiento,  or  city  hall, 
beyond  which  is  the  old  Plaza  de  la  Constitucion,  an 
oblong  square  of  such  a  quaint 
aspect  that  one  is  inclined  to 
laugh  when  first  its  tumble- 
down houses,  with  their  in- 
numerable crooked  balconies, 
meet  the  eye.  Of  course  we 
take  a  carriage-ride  over  the 
Cristina,  the  great  park-drive 
by  the  edge  of  the  Guadal- 
quivir, where  the 
belles  and  beaux  of 
the  town  show  them- 
selves between  seven 
and  eight  o'clock  in 
their  prettiest  toilets. 
The  Cristina  is  the 
finest  promenade  in 
Spain  and  the  place  of 
all  places  to  see  hand- 
some women.  The 
Andalusians  have  some  justification  for  their  boasts 
regarding  the  beauty  and  grace  of  their  women ;  the 
average  is  certainly  high.  "  There  may  be  in  England, 
in  France,  or  in  Italy,"  says  Gautier,  "  women  of  a  more 
perfect,  more  regular  beauty,  but  assuredly  there  are 


Seville.  81 

none  prettier  nor  more  piquantes"  They  have  in  a 
high  degree  what  the  Spaniards  call  la  sal:  not  at  all 
like  what  is  meant  by  Gallic  salt,  but  something  pecu- 
liarly Andalusian  and  unique,  —  a  mixture  of  dash, 
piquancy,  "  savey,"  and  deviltry.  To  say  of  an  An- 
dalusian maiden  that  she  is  salted,  is  regarded  as  the 
highest  possible  compliment.  We  bring  our  strange 
nocturnal  round  of  sights  to  a  close  very  late,  after 
visiting  one  of  the  subterranean  cafes  where  gypsies 
dance,  and  where  we  each  drink  a  thimbleful  of  agua- 
ardiente.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  dancing 
satisfactorily:  not  that  it  was  indecent,  for,  on  the 
contrary,  it  was  uncommonly  decorous,  but  it  was  so 
odd  that  it  almost  defies  description.  A  troupe  of  four 
men  and  four  women  occupied  the  stage.  The  females 
were  distinguished  by  the  most  extraordinarily  bright 
black  eyes  in  the  world,  while  they  were  otherwise  not 
by  any  means  plain  in  appearance,  though  dressed 
rather  simply.  The  only  music  was  a  weird  chant  of  a 
peculiar  and  teasing  rhythm,  loud  and  shrill,  accom- 
panied by  the  regular  clapping  of  hands ;  the  same 
motif  ran  through  the  whole,  and  all  the  company, 
except  the  one  who  happened  to  be  dancing,  joined  in 
it  with  great  gusto.  The  dancer  began  by  stamping 
with  one  and  the  other  foot  at  irregular  intervals,  and 
finally  writhed  from  head  to  foot,  waving  the  arms 
meantime  in  a  graceful  fashion.  Finally  the  middle 
and  upper  portions  of  the  body  were  brought  into  play, 
and  the  most  absurd  and  extravagant  contortions  of 


82 


Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 


the  least  graceful  part  of  the  system  were  produced. 
This  description  will  convey  but  a  very  inadequate  idea 
of  the  dance  to  any  one  except  him  who  has  seen  it. 
Nothing  more  thoroughly  barbaric,  more  fantastic, 


could  be  imagined  in  a  dream.  It  was  a  bolero.  In 
having  seen  it  we  felt  ourselves  to  be  more  fortunate 
than  M.  Gautier,  who  erroneously  assures  his  readers 
that  Spanish  dances  exist  only  in  Paris,  like  those 
shells  which  are  found  in  curiosity-shops,  but  never  on 
the  sea-beach. 

The  cathedral  of  Seville  is  so  great  a  building  in 
many  respects,  that  it  is  surely  a  surprise  and  a  marvel 
to  the  visitor  who  enters  it  with  even  the  most  ex- 
aggerated anticipations.  It  is  second  to  St.  Peter's 
alone  in  point  of  size,  being  150  feet  high,  and  414 
by  271  feet  in  dimensions  inside,  with  93  windows, 


Seville.  83 

30  chapels,  and  everything  in  like  proportions.  Gautier 
says  that  Notre  Dame  of  Paris  might  walk  right  up 
into  the  middle  nave.  "  Pillars  big  as  towers,  and  which 
appear  frightfully  frail,  spring  from  the  earth  or  hang 
from  the  vaulted  roof  like  stalactites  in  a  giant's  cave. 
The  four  lateral  naves,  though  less  lofty,  might  shelter 
whole  churches,  spires  and  all.  The  retablo,  or  high 
altar,  with  its  staircases,  its  superpositions  of  archi- 
tecture, its  rows  on  rows  of  statues,  is  an  immense 
edifice  of  itself;  it  rises  almost  to  the  roof.  The  font- 
candle,  large  as  a  vessel's  mast,  weighs  2,050  pounds. 
Twenty  thousand  pounds  of  wax  and  as  much  oil  are 
burned  each  year  in  the  cathedral  ;  the  wine  used  in 
the  holy  sacrifice  amounts  to  the  frightful  quantity  of 
18,750  litres.  It  is  a  fact  that  500  masses  are  per- 
formed every  day  at  the  80  altars.  The  catafalque 
used  during  Holy  Week  is  nearly  100  feet  high.  The 
organs,  of  gigantic  proportions,  look  like  the  basaltic 
colonnades  of  Fingal's  Cave,  and  yet  the  storms  and 
thunders  that  burst  from  their  pipes,  big  as  siege-guns, 
seem  melodious  murmurs,  the  distant  songs  of  birds 
and  seraphim,  under  these  colossal  arches."  The 
cathedral  staff  consists  of  an  archbishop  and  about 
one  hundred  priests.  The  chapter  was  immensely 
rich  until  the  government  appropriated  its  estates  in 
1836.  The  effect  of  the  interior  of  the  cathedral  is 
majestic  and  solemn  in  the  extreme,  and  the  innumer- 
able treasures  of  art,  which  it  would  take  months  to 
see  and  volumes  to  catalogue,  are  almost  forgotten 


84  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

in  contemplating  the  superb  vista  of  the  nave.  But 
the  Spanish  churches  are  always  full  of  little  artistic 
museums  abounding  in  pleasant  surprises,  and  it  will 
never  do  to  omit  visiting  this  and  that  chapel,  though 
the  process  be  never  so  wearisome.  The  details  of  the 
interior  in  this  case  are  worthy  of  the  magnificent 
edifice  itself,  which  was  designed  to  impress  later  gen- 
erations with  the  belief  that  its  builders  were  crazy. 
The  royal  chapter  contains  the  tombs  of  Alonso  the 
Wise  and  Queen  Beatrix,  St.  Ferdinand,  and  Maria  de 
Padilla,  the  mistress  of  Pedro  the  Cruel.  St.  Ferdi- 
nand's body  lies  in  a  solid  silver  sarcophagus  of  beau- 
tiful workmanship,  in  front  of  the  altar,  the  frontal  of 
which  is  also  of  silver.  His  sword,  and  the  ivory 
statuette  of  the  Virgin  which  he  carried  about  with  him 
in  his  campaigns,  are  here,  with  some  other  relics  of 
more  than  ordinary  interest;  and  lastly,  a  portrait  of 
the  conqueror  of  Seville,  by  Murillo.  Of  the  most 
interesting  pictorial  works  of  art  in  the  cathedral, 
I  shall  speak  in  another  chapter. 

The  Giralda  tower,  built  by  the  Moors  about  seven 
hundred  years  ago,  serves  as  bell-tower  for  the  cathe- 
dral. So  well  built  is  the  inclined  plane  up  which  the 
Arabs  rode  their  horses  to  the  platform  at  the  top, 
some  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  from  the  ground,  that 
it  is  just  as  strong  to-day  as  the  first  day  it  was  built. 
The  view  of  the  city  from  the  tower  is  very  fine,  but 
the  glare  is  awful.  Yonder  is  the  Alcazar,  the  ancient 
palace  of  the  Moorish  monarchs ;  the  tobacco-factory ; 


Seville. 


the  palace  of  San  Telmo, 
home  of  the  Duke  de  Mont- 
pensier ;  the  Tower  of  Gold, 
where  the  Moors  used  to 
store  their  valuables ;  the 
bull-ring,  one  of  the  best  in 
Spain;  and  the  winding 
Guadalquivir,  gay  with  ship- 
ping, for  the  commerce  of 
Seville  is  extensive.  As  this 
was  the  first  river  with  any 
water  in  it  we  had  seen  in 
Spain,  the  sight  of  it  glad- 
dened our  eyes.  A  country 
as  destitute  of  rivers,  trees, 
and  grass  as  is  Spain  is  to 
be  pitied. 

It  is  wise  to  visit  the  Alcazar  of  Seville  before 
seeing  the  Alhambra,  for  obvious  reasons.  The 
former  was  indeed  the  first  Moorish  building  we  saw, 
and  consequently  it  impressed  us  strongly,  all  the 
more  so  that  the  repairs  and  restorations  have  made  it 
present  almost  the  same  appearance  that  it  wore  in  the 
time  of  Abdu-r-rahman  Anna  'ssir  Liddin-Allah.  The 
King  was  intending  to  come  here  for  a  short  sojourn 
at  the  time  when  his  first  wife,  Mercedes,  died ;  and 
about  a  dozen  apartments  had  already  been  partly 
furnished  for  the  occasion.  The  luxurious  divans  and 
tapestries  presented  to  Alfonso  by  the  last  Sultan  of 


86  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

Turkey  adorned  several  of  the  rooms.  The  Alcazar 
is  the  only  Moorish  monument  in  Spain  which  has 
been  repainted,  and,  although  a  vast  sum  was  expended 
under  Isabel,  the  moderns  were  not  able  to  match  the 
blue  tints  of  the  Moors,  which  still  excel  all  pigments 
known  to  the  Spaniards  of  to-day.  The  court  of  the 
Doncellas,  with  its  fifty  white  marble  columns  and  its 
walls  covered  with  arabesques  of  indescribable  delicacy 
and  intricacy,  and  the  hall  of  ambassadors  (the  original 
doors  of  which  remain,  untouched  by  the  vandal  hands 
of  Charles  V,  who  had  a  mania  for  "improving"  the 
Moorish  architecture,  and  did  his  best  to  spoil  the 
Alhambra),  are  the  most  remarkable  portions  of  the 
palace,  which  retains  its  Moorish  character  to  a  won- 
derful degree,  considering  how  many  Christians  have 
tampered  with  it  since  Sakkaf  surrendered  the  city  to 
St.  Ferdinand.  The  garden,  with  its  terraces,  bowers, 
fountains,  summer-houses,  banana-trees,  orange-trees, 
lemon-trees,  pomegranates,  date-palms  (all  bearing 
fruit),  jasmins,  magnolias,  citrons,  prickly-pears,  and 
so  forth,  seemed  almost  too  beautiful  to  be  real ;  but 
there  was  much  reality  in  the  overpowering  rays  of  the 
fierce  sun  which  occasionally  beat  upon  our  heads 
while  we  wandered  in  its  labyrinth  and  inhaled  the 
scent  of  the  orange-blossoms  with  which  the  air  was 
laden  —  and  dodged  the  bees.  Here  is  the  pond 
where  Philip  V  used  to  fish,  and  the  Moorish  baths 
where  the  beauties  of  the  harem  disported  them- 
selves long  before  ;  and  now  and  then  the  visitor  steps 


Seville.  87 

on  the  wrong  paving-stone  in  the  pathway  and  is 
sprinkled  by  a  fine  jet  of  spray  from  an  unseen  fountain. 
The  luxurious  Moors  had  a  covered  gallery  running 
all  along  one  side  of  the  garden,  so  they  could  walk 
out  without  exposure  to  the  sun.  The  thing  that 
pleased  us  most  was  to  see  great  bunches  of  bananas 
growing  on  the  trees.  It  was  hard  to  realize  that  this 
superb  palace  was  uninhabited ;  but  that  is  the  case 
with  a  great  many  royal  palaces  in  these  days  of 
republics  and  iconoclasm. 

The  tobacco-factory  is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
things  to  be  seen  in  Seville.  Seven  thousand  five 
hundred  women  and  girls  are  employed.  The  building 
is  immense,  the  dimensions  being  662  by  524  feet.  It 
was  very  uncomfortably  hot,  and  in  some  of  the  rooms 
the  odor  of  tobacco  was  exceedingly  strong,  but  Jose 
said  that  the  work  was  wholesome,  that  once  when 
a  plague  devastated  the  city  not  a  single  cigarrera 
was  sick,  and  he  added  that  vermin  gave  the  establish- 
ment and  the  employees  a  wide  berth.  The  girls 
were  very  decidedly  decolletees ,  and  some  of  them 
came  startlingly  near  to  wearing  nothing  at  all,  but 
they  usually  threw  a  light  shawl  over  their  shoulders 
when  they  saw  a  party  of  male  visitors  approaching. 
One  room  alone  contained  no  less  than  3,300  women. 
As  we  entered,  the  sound  of  their  voices  was  like  the 
distant  roar  of  the  breakers  on  an  ocean  strand.  The 
cigarreras,  many  of  whom  are  great  beauties,  form 
a  class  by  themselves,  and  unhappily  are  not  noted  for 


88 


Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 


their  chastity.  Of  course  we  thought  of  the  "  Carmen  " 
of  the  opera,  and  on  coming  out  of  the  factory  were 
pleased  to  discover  that  the  infantry  barracks  occupied 
the  opposite  side  of  the  square,  thus  verifying  the  first 
scene  of  Bizet's  work.  This 
is  not  the  only  pleasant  asso- 
ciation connected  with  Se- 
ville ;  for,  besides  the  world- 
renowned  Figaro,  another 
true  Andalusian  type,  there 
is  Don  Juan,  who  lived  in  a 
house  now  belonging  to  the 
nuns  of  San  Leandro.  It  is 
interesting  to  compare  the 
numerous  contradictory  leg- 
ends about  this  immortal  gay 
deceiver.  The  most  uni- 
versally accepted  story  makes 
his  name  Don  Juan  Tenorio, 
and  was  first  given  to  the 
world  by  Gabriel  Tellez  (Tirso  de  Molina).  Then 
after  serving  as  the  hero  of  various  Italian  and  French 
plays,  he  was  finally  immortalized  in  the  book  of 
Mozart's  opera.  The  original  of  Donna  Anna  was  the 
daughter  of  the  Governor  of  Seville,  whom  Don  Juan 
killed,  and  whose  statue  so  unexpectedly  (and,  I  may 
add,  so  operatically)  accepted  a  foolish  invitation  to 
supper,  thus  affording  another  proof,  if  one  were 
needed,  that  the  Spaniards  do  not  always  need  to  be 


Seville.  89 

urged  to  accept  the  courtesies  offered  them !  Indeed 
the  statue  not  only  accepted  Don  Juan's  invitation 
at  once,  but  when  he  invited  him  to  supper  in  return 
Don  Juan  was  equally  ready  to  accept  the  hospitalities 
of  the  statue.  But  the  most  picturesque  legend  told 
in  Seville  makes  it  appear  that  Don  Juan  lived  to 
repent  of  his  evil  deeds,  and  founded  the  hospital  now 


known  as  the  Charity.  The  story  runs,  that,  going 
home  one  night  after  an  orgie,  Don  Juan  met  a  funeral 
procession  going  to  the  church  of  St.  Isidore  —  black- 
robed,  masked  monks,  bearing  yellow  wax  tapers, 
something  more  dreadful  indeed  than  an  ordinary 
funeral.  "Who  is  dead  ?"  asked  Don  Juan  :  "  a  hus- 
band killed  in  a  duel  by  his  wife's  lover  ?  or  an  honest 
father  who  was  too  slow  about  leaving  his  fortune  to 
his  heirs  ?  "  One  of  the  bearers  of  the  bier  answered  : 
•"This  dead  man  is  none  other  than  Don  Juan  de 


9o 


Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 


Marana,  whose  obsequies  we  are  about  to  perform. 
Come  with  us  and  pray  for  him."  Don  Juan 
approached  and,  by  the  light  of  the  candles,  perceived 
that  the  corpse  had  his  face,  and  in  fact  was  himself. 
He  followed  his  own  bier  into  the  church  and  prayed 
with  the  mysterious  monks  :  the  following  morning  he 
was  found  lying,  unconscious,  on  the  steps  of  the 
choir.  This  incident  made  such  an  impression  on 
him  that  he  renounced  his  depraved  way  of  life, 
became  a  penitent,  and,  after  founding  the  aforesaid 
hospital,  died  almost  in  the  odor  of  sanctity. 


CHAPTER  X. 


PICTURES    IN    SEVILLE. 

SOME  of  the  most 
interesting  of  Mu- 
rillo's  works  are  still 
retained  in  his  own 
city,  though  the 
French  under  Soult 
carried  off  a  good 
many  valuable  ex- 
amples, including 
the  large  Concep- 
tion,  in  the  Louvre, 
and  the  St.  Elizabeth  which  has  found  its  way  back  as  far 
as  Madrid.  "  The  Vision  of  Saint  Anthony  of  Padua," 
which  hangs  in  the  chapel  of  the  baptistry  of  the  cathe- 
dral, is  a  great  painting  in  all  respects,*  and  is 

*"  Jamais  la  magie  de  la  peinture  n'a  e"te  pousse'e  plus  loin,"  says  Gautier,  in  a  burst  of 
admiration.  "  Le  saint  en  extase  est  a  genoux  au  milieu  de  la  cellule,  dont  tous  les  pauvres 
details  sont  rendus  avec  cette  realite  vigoureuse  qui  caracterise  1'ecole  espagnole.  A  travers  la 
porte  entr'ouverte  Ton  aper$oit  un  de  ces  longs  cloitres  blancs  en  arcades  si  favorables  a  la  reverie. 
Le  haut  du  tableau  noye1  d'une  lumiere  blonde,  transparente,  vaporeuse,  est  occupe  par  des  groupes 
d'anges  d'une  beaute  vraiment  ideale.  Attire"  par  la  force  de  la  priere,  1'Enfant  Jesus  descend  de 
nuee  en  nuee  et  va  se  placer  entre  les  bras  du  saint  personnage,  dont  la  tete  est  baignee  d'effluves 
rayonnantes  et  se  renverse  dans  un  spasme  de  volupte  celeste.  Je  mets  ce  tableau  divin  au-dessus 
de  la  Sainte  Elisabeth  de  Hongrie  pansant  un  teigneux  que  Ton  voit  a  1' Academic  de  Madrid,  au- 
dessus  de  Motse,  au-dessus  de  toutes  les  Vierges  et  des  enfants  du  maitre,  si  beaux  et  si  purs  qu'ils 
soient.  Qui  n'a  pas  vu  le  Saint  Antoine  de  Padoue  ne  connait  pas  le  dernier  mot  du  peintre  de 
Seville  ;  c'est  comme  ceux  qui  s'imaginent  connaitre  Rubens  et  qui  n'ont  pas  vu  la  Madeleine 
d'Anvers." 


92  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

considered  by  some  writers  to  be  the  finest  of  Murillo's 
works.  It  has  extraordinary  gusto,  and  the  motive 
must  appeal  forcibly  to  every  observer,  in  spite  of  the 
absence  of  the  feminine  element  which  constitutes  such 
an  important  factor  in  many  of  this  painter's  most 
admirable  pictures.  There  is  a  charming  tenderness 
and  benignity  about  the  Saint's  expression,  and  I  may 
say  that  no  painter,  as  it  seems  to  me,  has  represented 
so  truthfully  and  graciously  the  softer  side  of  men's 
character  —  that  phase  of  feeling  which  all  have 
experienced  at  some  crisis  in  life,  but  which  most  men 
(especially  those  of  Northern  race)  are  ashamed  of. 
Murillo's  art  must  impress  Protestants  and  sceptics 
with  the  sincerity  and  depth  of  his  faith,  its  beneficent 
influence  upon  him,  and  its  value  as  an  art  motive. 
His  religious  fervor  supplies  him  with  an  inspiration 
which  lifts  his  art  to  a  plane  where  simplicity,  grandeur, 
and  dignity  become  the  natural  concomitants  of  a  lofty 
ideal.  Where  the  modern  man  expends  his  emotional 
reserves  in  his  family  affections,  the  Catholic  pours  out 
all  his  love  and  reverence  before  the  altar  of  the 
Virgin  and  her  Divine  Son.  In  the  face  of  Saint 
Anthony,  as  here  depicted,  there  is  the  same  deep  and 
tranquil  joy  that  may  be  seen  in  a  father's  face  when 
he  welcomes  a  child  who  has  been  absent.  "  Drawn 
by  the  force  of  prayer,"  —  that  is  very  fine,  very  touch- 
ing, but  not  more  so  than  the  daily  miracles  of  human 
love  which  are  perhaps  quite  as  authentic.  This 
painting  has  a  history  not  wholly  unconnected  with 


Pictures  in  Seville.  93 

that  New  World  \vhich  Columbus  so  prematurely 
presented  to  Castile  and  Leon.  One  morning  at  an 
early  hour  a  man  enveloped  in  a  long  cloak  entered 
the  cathedral,  apparently  for  the  purposes  of  worship, 
and  turned  into  the  chapel  of  the  baptistry,  where  — 
as  soon  as  he  perceived  that  he  was  alone  and  unob- 
served —  he  slipped  out  a  knife  from  his  belt  and 
quickly  cut  the  lower  part  of  the  canvas  out  of  the 
frame  ;  then  he  rolled  up  the  stolen  masterpiece  and 
concealing  it  under  his  cloak,  made  good  his  escape. 
As  soon  as  the  theft  became  known,  the  government 
advertised  it  far  and  \vide,  sending  out  descriptions  of 
the  painting.  The  thief  brought  his  booty  to  America, 
and  one  day  offered  to  sell  it  to  a  picture-dealer  in 
New  York,  but  of  course  the  latter  had  heard  of  the 
theft  and  promptly  notified  the  Spanish  Consul,  so 
that  the  missing  painting  was  finally  found,  sent  back 
to  Seville,  and  restored  to  its  old  place,  the  work  of 
joining  it  to  the  other  parts  of  the  canvas  being  so 
skilfully  done  that  it  is  not  easy  to  tell  where  the 
patching  was  done.  As  for  the  foolish  thief,  he  was 
caught,  to  be  sure,  but  at  that  time  he  could  not  be 
punished,  owing  to  the  want  of  an  extradition  treaty 
between  the  United  States  and  Spain. 

The  cathedral  is  very  rich  in  works  of  art  by  painters 
of  the  Sevillian  school,  —  Herrera,  Cano,  Campafia, 
Valdes,  Vargas,  and  others.  There  is  an  exquisite 
"Guardian  Angel,"  by  Murillo,  and  in  the  sacristy, 
where  the  great  "  painter  of  the  Conceptions  "  lies 


94  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

buried,  are  two  fine  canvases  by  him,  "San  Isidro"  and 
"  San  Leandro."  The  altarpiece,  a  "  Descent  from  the 
Cross,"  by  Campana,  was  greatly  admired  by  Murillo, 
who  was  buried  here  at  his  own  request,  just  in  front 
of  it.  Among"  other  paintings  is  one  of  the  patron 
saints  of  Seville,  Saints  Justa  and  Rufina.  There  are 
two  different  tales  about  the  models  who  posed  for  this 
work ;  but  the  favorite  version  is  to  the  effect  that  they 
were  two  frail  ladies  of  Madrid  —  frail  morally,  I  mean. 
Another  chapel  contains  no  less  than  nine  pictures  by 
Zurbaran,  but  I  will  not  mention  any  more  of  the  cathe- 
dral's artistic  treasures,  for  I  do  not  wish  to  poach  on 
the  preserves  of  the  guidebook-makers,  wretchedly  as 
they  have  done  their  work. 

The  Charity  Hospital  contains  Murillo's  "  Moses 
Striking  the  Rock  "  and  the  "  Miracle  of  the  Loaves 
and  Fishes."  I  translate  the  following  agreeable 
description  of  a  celebrated  canvas  by  Valdes  Leal  in 
the  same  place  :  A  dead  archbishop  is  seen  lying  in 
a  rotten  coffin  trimmed  with  velvet.  On  one  of  the 
fingers  of  his  gloved  hand  shines  an  enormous  ring. 
The  greenish,  bluish,  black  head  is  in  a  complete  state 
of  putrefaction  under  the  white  mitre  surrounded  by 
pearls.  Viscid  larvae  crawl  over  the  gnawed  nose  ;  an 
unclean  creature  emerges  from  one  of  the  eyes.  At 
the  side  of  the  archbishop,  in  another  coffin,  a  king, 
with  a  crown  upon  his  head,  is  laid  out  under  a  swarm 
of  worms.  The  clenched  hand  grasps  a  sceptre. 
Above,  through  the  clouds,  appears  a  hand  holding 


Pictures  in  Seville.  95 

a  pair  of  scales,  and  against  a  luminous  ray  of  light 
flame  the  words  of  truth  :  "  Here  below,  all  is  vanity."  * 
The  property  of  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts  is  lodged 
in  an  old  church,  ill-lighted,  but  high  and  airy,  and  it 
is  called  the  Provincial  Museum.  It  contains  twenty- 
four  pictures  by  Murillo,  twenty  by  Zurbaran,  nineteen 
by  Pacheco,  twelve  by  the  brothers  Polancos,  ten  by 
the  elder  Herrera,  ten  by  Valdes  Leal,  and  the  rest 
are  by  Juan  del  Castillo,  Andres  Perez,  Juan  Simon 
Gutierrez,  Francisco  Frutet,  Pablo  de  Cespedes,  Matias 
Arteaga  y  Alfaro,  Esteban  Marquez,  Juan  de  las  Roelas, 
Clemente  Torres,  Francisco  Varela,  Alonso  Vazquez, 
and  other  gentlemen  of  equally  sonorous  names, 
belonging  to  the  three  epochs  in  art  to  which  every- 
thing in  Seville  is  relegated,  namely :  the  ante-Murillo 
epoch,  the  Murillo  epoch,  and  the  post-Murillo  epoch. 
The  whole  collection  numbers  less  than  two  hundred 
pictures.  Many  of  them  are  in  a  very  dirty  and 
obscured  condition,  and  a  large  number  are  of  slight 
interest  to  the  casual  visitor,  though  they  supply  much 
food  for  reflection  to  the  student  of  art.  The  "Saint 
Thomas  Aquinas,"  of  Zurbaran,  is  of  capital  importance, 
ranking  first  among  this  prominent  painter's  perform- 
ances.y  There  is  a  certain  academic  dryness  and 

*  "  Ici-bas,  rien  n'est  vrai."  P.  L.  Imbert,  "  L'Espagne:  Splendeurs  et  Miseres." 
t  This  is  the  description  of  the  work  given  by  the  catalogue:  "  Representa  el  Santo  en  pie  y 
elevado:  en  la  pane  superior,  y  entre  nubes,  se  ven  Jesucristo  y  la  Virgen,  San  Pablo  y  Santo 
Domingo:  a  los  lados  del  Santo  aparecen  sentados,  tambien  sobre  nubes,  los  cuatro  Doctores 
de  \.\  Iglesia  Latina;  y  abajo,  en  primer  termmo,  estan  arrodillados  el  Emperador  Carlos  V,  el 
Arzobispo  de  Deza  y  algunos  otros  personajes.  Es  tradicional  que  la  cabeza  que  se  ve  inmediata- 
mente  detras  del  Emperador  es  el  retrato  de  su  autor." 


g6  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

formality  in  his  works  generally,  and  this  unpleasant 
quality  pervades  many  of  the  paintings  of  the  Sevillian 
school  in  this  gallery,  —  paintings  of  wooden  saints, 
stupid  monks,  lifeless  apostles,  and  automatic  angels, 
which  are  libels  upon  humanity  and  outrages  against 
divinity.  It  is  only  when  you  turn  to  Murillo  that  you 
find  vitality  and  thought  in  form  and  color.  See  with 
what  legible  expression  and  individuality  he  has 
endowed  his  benign  "  San  Antonio,"  the  good-hearted 
and  tender  man  who  holds  the  Nino  Dios  in  his  arms 
so  lovingly  !  And  note  the  Virgin  Mother  of  "  La  Ser- 
villeta,"  so  full  of  holy  maternal  affection  and  solicitude, 
"  admiracion  de  cuantos  la  ven,"  as  the  catalogue 
quaintly  says.  It  is  not  hard  to  see  what  places  the 
master  so  far  above  the  rest  of  them  who  went  before 
and  after  him,  for  if  it  may  be  said  of  many  that  they 
could  draw  to  perfection,  of  others  that  they  were 
superb  in  point  of  coloring,  of  a  few  men  that  their 
knowledge  of  chiaroscuro  was  great,  of  how  many  can 
it  be  said  as  well  that  they  combined  these  acquire- 
ments with  the  perceptions  of  a  genuine  artist,  the 
enthusiasms  of  a  noble  and  sincere  man,  and  the 
sensitive  nature  of  a  poet?  Happy  Murillo!  and 
fortunate  Spain !  to  possess  such  glorious  memorials 
of  this  "divinely  gifted  man."  Can  it  be  possible  that 
this  very  Seville  which  was  his  home  was  also  the 
scene  of  the  Inquisition  ?  and  that  the  same  religion 
which  prompted  his  labors  was  capable  of  inspiring 
the  fiendish  tortures  by  which  Torquemada  cast  an 
ineffaceable  stain  upon  his  church  and  his  country? 


CHAPTER  XI. 


SEVILLE    TO    GRANADA. 


To  the  fevered  traveler  in  hot  Se- 
ville there  comes  a  vision  of  Granada 
with  her  breezy  hills  and  her  distant 
snow-capped  sierras  !  We  reluctantly 
gave  up  going  to  Cadiz  and  Gibraltar, 
and  told  Jose  we  would  fain  hie  us 
to  the  Alhambra.  He  asked  us  to 
what  hotel  we  were  going,  and  we 
responded,  as  in  duty  bound,  "The 
Washington  Irving."  "The  Hotel  of 
the  Seven  Floors  is  better,"  said  Jose. 
"  We  will  go  there,  then,"  we  said  : 
"  for  there  are  degrees  of  badness,  and  some  bad 
dishes  are  not  so  hopelessly  bad  as  others."  Jose 
packed  a  lunch  consisting  of  cold  meats,  bread,  fruit, 
and  a  bottle  of  Manzanilla,  in  a  basket,  and  we  took  it 
with  us,  for  it  was  more  than  doubtful  whether  we 
were  to  be  victualled  at  Utrera,  or  at  La  Roda,  or  at 
Bobadilla,  though  we  knew  that  the  "  through  car  " 
which  leaves  Seville  daily  at  seven  A.  M.,  and  arrives 
at  Granada  about  fourteen  hours  later,  was  to  be 
switched  from  one  line  to  another  at  each  of  those 
three  interesting  junctions.  Jose  came  to  the  station 


98  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

to  say  "  Hasta  la  vista  "  to  us,  and  we  departed,  leaving 
him  richer  by  a  handful  of  pesetas,  for  truly  the  worthy 
fellow  had  been  of  great  service  to  us,  missing  at  least 
two  siestas  in  our  behalf,  and  had  assisted  Hermano 
to  select  a  black  lace  toca  for  his  far-off  muchacha 
with  good  taste  and  judgment,  —  without  pocketing 
more  than  ten  or  twelve  pesetas  as  a  commission, 
which  was  modest  and  reasonable. 

That  was  a  day  which  may  without  exaggeration  be 
set  down  as  warm.  At  Utrera  our  car  was  left  behind 
by  the  train,  which  proceeded  to  Cadiz,  and  after  an 
hour  and  a  half  of  waiting  we  were  picked  up  by 
another  train  and  moved  eastward  at  the  usual  rate  of 
sixteen  miles  an  hour  till  we  came  to  La  Roda,  on  the 
line  between  Cordova  and  Malaga.  Here  we  spent 
a  pleasant  hour  on  a  siding,  and  presently  the  south- 
ward train  took  us  along  as  far  as  Bobadilla,  and  there 
dropped  us.  There  was  a  restaurant  at  Bobadilla,  but 
we  had  no  time  to  spare,  for  the  final  stage  of  this 
extraordinary  journey  was  at  once  entered  upon,  and 
we  were  at  last  fairly  on  the  Granada  road.  The  latter 
part  of  the  ride  is  most  interesting,  and  our  anticipa- 
tions are  excited  to  the  highest  degree.  At  nightfall 
we  are  toiling  up  a  steep  grade  among  the  romantic 
and  oddly  picturesque  mountain  defiles,  where  gray 
villages,  perched  on  gray,  rocky  hillsides,  overlook  the 
grim  gray  landscape  beneath,  and  where  ruined  castles 
and  citadels  loom  up  suddenly  in  the  twilight  on  the 
barren  mountain  slopes,  as  unreal  and  mysterious  as 


Seville  to  Granada. 


99 


the  castles  in  Spain  of  our  waking  dreams !  This  is 
the  most  lonesome,  ghostly  region  in  Spain.  The 
mountains  are  of  peculiar  forms,  and  their  ruddy 
flanks  look  as  if  some  Titanic  colorists  had  given  them 

a  coat  of  Indian  red,  here 
and  there  covered  with 
a  gray  glaze.  We  have 
passed  Antequera,  Archi- 
dona,  and  Loja.  Each 
name  awakens  recollec- 
tions of  Irving's  "  Con- 
quest of  Granada."  It  was 
among  these  strange 
mountains  that  Ferdinand 
and  his  warlike  spouse 
gave  and  took  so  many  sturdy  blows 
in  the  long  conflict  which  Fray  Antonio 
Agapida  has  recorded  with  so  much 
romantic  zest.  If  one  could  travel 
among  the  mountains  on  the  moon, 
they  would  be  found  not  unlike  these 
ashen-hued  and  ghostly  heights,  which  show  one  how 
a  dead  world  might  appear.  Is  it  possible  that  the 
rest  of  the  physical  world  can  be  as  venerable  as  this 
part  of  it  ?  The  sun  has  fairly  gone  down  when  the 
train  reaches  the  open  plain  which  encircles  Granada. 


"  Yet  of  the  Vega  not  a  rood 
But  hath  been  drenched  with  Moorish  blood.' 


ioo  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

Proceeding  from  the  Loja  station,  the  scene  of  old 
All  Atar's  bloody  chastisement  upon  the  Christian  army 
which  had  marched  down  from  Cordova  so  proudly, 
we  are  just  in  time  to  catch  one  glimpse  of  the  distant 
snows  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  "with  rosy  stain"  now 
fading  fast.  It  is  our  entrance  upon  the  vast  arena 
called  the  Vega,  or  plain,  and  across  which  in  the 
gathering  shadows  of  the  evening  the  train  rolls  slowly 
until  the  Granada  station  is  reached.  The  coach  which 
conveys  the  weary  traveler  to  the  Hotel  of  the  Seven 
Floors  is  drawn  by  four  gaunt  mules,  which  look  as 
if  they  lived  on  shavings,  but  who  are  in  recompense 
decorated  profusely  with  gaudy  red  tassels.  The 
town,  or  at  least  a  large  portion  of  it,  is  traversed,  the 
bull-ring  being  passed  soon  after  quitting  the  railway 
station.  Presently  we  are  climbing  through  a  thick 
grove,  and  our  hearts  beat  quicker  to  know  that  we 
are  on  the  hill  where  stands  the  Alhambra.  It  is 
pitch-dark,  and  nothing  can  be  seen  under  the  trees, 
but  there  is  a  delicious  sound  of  gurgling,  rushing 
water,  for  on  all  sides  are  little  rills  dashing  down  the 
steep  slopes.  A  few  minutes  later,  we  are  in  the 
hotel,  ordering  a  supper  in  three  or  four  languages, 
and  reading  a  bundle  of  letters  from  home. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

THE    SEVEN    FLOORS. 

"SENORITO,      Un 

cuartito  !  " 

"Monsieur,  un  sou, 
un  petit  sou  !  " 

"Mister!  a  penny!" 
Those  dirty  four- 
year-old  girls  had 
learned  to  beg  in 
three  languages.  But 
they  were  picturesque 
in  their  rags,  or,  as  Hermano  said, 
they  were  merely  a  part  of  the  gen- 
eral picturesqueness  all  about  us. 
When  they  found  that  we  were 
unmoved  by  their  appeals,  one  of 
them  planted  herself  squarely  in  front  of  us  (we  were 
sitting  on  a  stone  bench  overlooking  the  town  and  the 
Vega)  and  began  to  dance  the  bolero  in  the  most 
business-like  manner.  After  we  had  got  rid  of  these 
juvenile  beggars,  Hermano  produced  from  his  pocket 
a  card  from  which  he  proceeded  to  read  the  following 
list  of  "  curiosities  of  the  city  of  Granada  and  its  envi- 
rons," or  "  curiosidades  de  la -ciuclad  de  Granada  y  sus 


IO2  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

cercanias  "  :  Alhambra,  Axarix,  Audiencia,  Algibe  de 
la  lluvia,  Albercon  de  los  Negros,  Albaicin,  Banos  de 
las  Damas,  Banos  Arabes,  Catedral,  Capilla  Real, 
Cartuja,  Casa  de  los  Tiros,  Espada  de  Boabdil,  Ermita 
de  San  Sebastian,  Fuente  de  Alfacar,  Fuente  del  Avel- 
lano,  S.  Gerdnimo  (Sepulcro  del  Gran  Capitan),  Sierra 
Nevada,  Suspiro  del  Moro,  Sacro-Monte,  Soto  de 
Roma,  Palacio  de  Andaralik,  Palacio  de  Aben-Abid, 
Palacio  de  Viznar. 

"  And  here  we  have  been  spending  nearly  twenty- 
four  hours  in  this  place  without  doing  a  thing,  unless 
it  is  to  make  Jose  Gadea  understand  that  that  ropa 

must  be  washed  and  ironed 
by  next  Maries  tardes"  I 
said.  (I  was  growing  very 
proud  of  the  Spanish  phrases 
I  had  picked  up.) 

"  Yes,"  assented  Hermano, 
glancing  over  the  list  of  curi- 
osities, which  seemed  to  ex- 
ercise a  certain  painful  fasci- 
nation upon  him.  "  Do  you 
suppose  they  would  admit 
us  to  see  the  Banos  de  las 
damas  ?  " 

"  Nicolas  could  tell  you." 
Nicolas  Garzon  Rodriguez 
had  not  yet  made  his  appearance  that  morning,  though 
it  was  quite  late.  He  was  a  cross-eyed  youth,  who 


The  Seven  Floors.  103 

spoke  a  few  words  of  French  and  fewer  still  of  English, 
and  we  had  engaged  him  to  be  our  guide  for  a  day  or 
two,  until  we  had  got  our  bearings.  Nicolas  was  an 
amusing  fellow.  He  was  smoking  cigarettes  contin- 
ually, except  when  eating,  sleeping,  or  in  church.  He 
was  entirely  walling  to  accompany  us  anywhere  all  the 
morning,  but  wisely  insisted  on  taking  his  regular 
siesta  after  the  noonday  meal,  in  which  respect  we 
followed  his  excellent  example,  and  indeed  continued 
the  practice  until  we  left  the  country.  He  insisted 
that  the  Arabic  inscription,  —  "  Wa  la  ghaliba  ilia  Allah  " 
("  There  is  no  conqueror  but  God"),  Alhamar's  motto, 
—  repeated  here  and  there  on  the  walls  of  the  Alham- 
bra,  meant  "  Good-ah  God."  He  remarked  also  that 
he  could  tell  an  Englishman  from  an  American,  because 
the  former  said  "Red  towers,"  the  latter  ''Vermilion 
towers."  He  held  that  the  chief  point  of  interest 
about  the  Generalife  was  the  gardener's  daughter, 
who,  like  the  miller's  daughter,  is  grown  "  so  dear,  so 
dear,"  that  it  costs  four  reales  to  have  her  mother 
show  you  through  the  garden,  in  order  to  have  a  look 
at  the  maiden's  prettiness  as  you  pass  the  porter's 
lodge.  There  were  other  entertaining  traits  about 
Nicolas,  who  was  quite  dignified  in  demeanor,  but 
whose  heart  we  won  by  treating  him  to  bottled  beer 
and  Cuban  cigars  in  the  garden  of  the  hotel.  Travelers 
assuredly  make  a  great  mistake  when  they  do  not 
cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  their  guides.  To  us 
Nicolas  was  quite  as  interesting  as  the  Alhambra,  over 


IO4  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

which  he  possessed  one  decided  advantage,  namely: 
that  we  had  never  heard  of  him   before. 

The  Hotel  of  the  Seven  Floors  is  just  outside  the 
walls  of  the  Moorish  fortress,  and  takes  its  name  from 
the  Tower  of  the  Seven  Floors,  which  stands  in  the 
rear  of  the  house  and  which  has  an  entertaining 
legend,  one  of  the  best  that  Irving  tells,  concerning 
the  Moor's  legacy  of  treasure  which  enriched  poor 
Pedro  Gil,  the  water-carrier.  Opposite  this  house  is 
the  Hotel  Washington  Irving,  which,  though  older 
and  perhaps  more  widely  known,  is  not  so  popular  as 
its  rival.  These  two  are  the  only  hotels  on  the  hill. 
They  are  situated  on  a  spot  not  only  beautiful  in  its 
natural  aspects,  but  exceedingly  romantic  from  its 
associations.  The  landlord  of  the  Seven  Floors  is  a  fat 
and  jolly  old  boy,  and  his  daughter  is  remarkably 
pretty  —  two  circumstances  which  may  in  some 

measure  account  for  the 
popularity  of  the  inn. 
The  sociable  group  of 
boarders,  which  gath- 
ered just  outside  the 
front  door  on  the  in- 
geniously designed 
pavement  of  black  and 
white  pebbles,  was  often 
enlivened  in  the  afternoon  and  evening  by  the  presence 
and  animated  conversation  of  this  dark-eyed  belle,  who 
slept  on  a  bench  in  the  " office"  when  the  hotel  was 


The  Seven  Floors.  105 

• 
crowded  ;  at  least  we  saw  her  slumbering  there  at  three 

o'clock  in  the  morning  on  the  day  when  we  departed  by 
an  early  train. 

The  visitors'  book  in  the  public  room  was  full  of 
enthusiastic  praise  of  the  accommodations,  cuisine, 
service,  etc.,  these  absurd  testimonials  being  written 
in  Spanish,  French,  English,  and  German,  with  an 
occasional  impromptu  verse  or  a  labored  joke.  One 
Englishman  had  filled  a  whole  page  with  an  "  Ode  to 
Carlos  Quinto,"  which  was  really  witty.  The  fare  at 
this  place  was  very  bad,  though  probably  it  would  be 
rated  a  good  example  of  a  high-class  table,  as  Spanish 
tables  go.  It  was  diverting  to  see  a  beautiful  woman 
at  dinner,  eating  cold  fish  in  oil  with  her  knife.  She 
looked  like  Marie  Roze,  or  would  have  looked  like  her 
if  she  had  not  been  cross-eyed,  as  so  many  Spanish 
beauties  are.  Mesa  redonda  (table  d'hote)  was  served 
in  the  long  dining-room  at  six  o'clock,  when  it 
happened  to  be  ready  on  time,  which  was  a  rare 
occurrence.  But  most  of  the  visitors  preferred  to  take 
dinner  in  the  picturesque  terraced  garden,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Alhambra  walls,  where  the  lamps  were 
lit  and  cigarettes  glowed  in  the  dusk.  Here  the  only 
drawback  to  the  enjoyment  of  dining  al  fresco  —  a 
privilege  so  wisely  esteemed  by  Europeans  —  was  the 
presence  of  several  half-starved  cats,  who,  when  one's 
attention  strayed  from  the  edibles  to  some  less  im- 
portant subject,  impudently  jumped  upon  the  tables, 
and  seizing  whatever  food  they  could  most  conven- 


io6  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

iently  reach,  made  off  with  it  rapidly  and  in  triumph. 
One  evening,  as  we  sat  here  at  dinner,  a  party  of 
toreros  came  up  from  the  town,  and  created  a  tremen- 
dous excitement  which  quite  paralyzed  for  the  time 
being  the  usefulness  of  the  waiters,  who  hung  about 
the  demi-gods  of  the  arena  in  an  ecstacy  of  admiration. 
The  dinner  that  evening  was  neglected,  and  the  entire 
establishment  was  thrown  into  a  commotion.  It  was  in 
this  pretty  garden  that  we  met  the  only  compatriots  we 
had  encountered  in  Spain  —  Mr.  L.,  the  author,  and 
Mr.  R.,  the  artist.  It  was  surprising  to  find  how 
pessimistic  our  group  could  be  under  such  pleasant 
circumstances.  Instead  of  rhapsodizing  about  castles, 
cathedrals,  and  pictures,  the  quartet  unanimously  fell 
to  complaining  of  the  heat,  anathematizing  the  beggars, 
abusing  the  hotels  and  railways,  and  outdoing  one 
another  in  preposterous  stories  about  fleas.  Mr.  R. 
was  in  a  particularly  gloomy  state  of  mind.  He  had 
been  made  downright  ill  by  the  smells  of  Burgos  ;  at 
Toledo  he  had  been  obliged  to  go  out  in  the  street  to 
look  up  the  hotel  employees  and  inform  them  that  it 
was  past  dinner-time  ;  and  he  was  sighing  for  beloved 
France,  where  he  could  make  himself  understood. 
While  we  were  talking,  some  strolling  caballero  in  the 
grove  near  by  struck  up  the  familiar,  wild,  ear-piercing 
chant  which  apparently  forms  the  sole  stock-in-trade 
of  Spanish  vocalists,  and  as  the  last  mournful  howl 
died  away  in  the  distance,  a  groan  broke  from  the 
afflicted  artist,  and  he  said,  "I  am  so  tired  of  that 


TJic  Seven  Floors. 


10: 


song !  "  But  we  on  our  part  had  a  special  personal 
grievance  which  made  his  woes  seem  trifles  light  as 
air.  Our  bedchambers  were  immediately  above  the 
donkeys'  stables  !  And  those  frisky  animals  spent  the 
greater  part  of  each  night  in  kicking  against  the  walls 
of  their  quarters  with  tremendous  vigor,  occasionally 
breaking  out  into  a  prolonged  and  startling  he-haw  of 
fiendish  fury.  When  we  told  Mr.  R.  of  these  things 
he  acknowledged  that  his  cup  was  not  yet  so  full  as 
it  might  be. 


io8  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE  ALHAMBKA,  WITH  A  LEGEND. 

Do  you  remember  what  Daisy  Miller's  mother  said 
soon  after  her  arrival  in  Rome  ?  "  We  had  heard  so 
much  about  it ;  I  suppose  we  had  heard  too  much. 
But  we  could  n't  help  that.  We  had  been  led  to  expect 
something  different."  Likewise  do  you  remember 
what  Edward  Everett  Male's  double  used  to  say  when 
called  upon  for  a  speech  ?  "  So  much  has  been  said, 
and  so  well,  that  I  will  not  occupy  the  time." 

No  one  can  adequately  describe  the  Alhambra :  not 
even  Irving,  whose  word-pictures  are  so  beautiful  and 
so  full  of  the  local  color.  He  comes  nearest  to  it,  and 
we  felt  a  certain  patriotic  pride  as  we  entered  the  place 
and  remembered  that  an  American  had  sat  upon  the 
throne  of  Boabdil  to  such  good  purpose.  On  the  first 
visit  there  is  a  feeling  of  disappointment,  for  the 
imaginary  Alhambra  which  has  been  built  in  the  mind 
by  means  of  reading  has  to  be  demolished,  —  a  painful 
and  shocking  process,  which  is  soon  over.  Nicolas 
led  us  about,  told  us  what  to  admire,  catalogued  the 
courts  and  halls,  and  conducted  us  to  the  towers.  We 
went  back  to  the  hotel  disgusted.  But  the  next  day 
we  gave  Nicolas  the  slip,  and  went  in  the  right  way 
to  enjoy  ourselves  —  alone,  aimless,  lazy,  and  in 


no 


Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 


sympathy  with  the  place.  That  long,  quiet,  peaceful, 
beautiful  afternoon  spent  in  the  Hall  of  Ambassadors 
will  be  forever  remembered.  We  sat  in  a  window 
overlooking  the  valley  of  the  Darro,  and  for  hours  we 

did  not 
care  to 
move  or 
speak. 
"While 
the  city 
below 
pants  with 

the  noontide  heat,"  says 
Irving,  in  one  of  his 
most  exquisite  passages 
of  description,  "and  the 
parched  Vega  trembles 
to  the  eye,  the  delicate 
airs  from  the  Sierra  Ne- 
vada play  through  these 
lofty  halls,  bringing  with 
them  the  sweetness  of 
the  surrounding  gar- 
dens. Everything  in- 
vites to  that  indolent  repose,  the  bliss  of  Southern 
climes ;  and  while  the  half-shut  eye  looks  out  from 
shaded  balconies  upon  the  glittering  landscape,  the  ear 
is  lulled  by  the  rustling  of  groves  and  the  murmur  of 
running  streams." 


The  Alhambra,  with  a  Legend.  1 1 1 

At  another  time  we  loitered  long  in  the  charming1 
boudoir  of  Lindaraxa,  where  we  amused  ourselves  by 
making  sketches  of  the  opposite  wing,  the  tocador  de 
la  Reyna,  where  Irving  lodged.  The  little  garden  is 
overgrown  with  orange  and  citron  trees,  vines,  and 
rank  growths  unknown  to  Northern  countries,  and  it 
has  a  melancholy  air  of  having  seen  better  days. 
Then,  wandering  slowly  from  one  hall  to  another,  as 
the  magic  hour  of  sunset  drew  near,  we  would  go  to 
the  charming  garden  on  the  battlemented  \vall  under 
the  bell-tower,  looking  off  on  the  Vega,  the  wide- 
spreading  city  below  us,  the  Vermilion  Towers  on  the 
thickly  wooded  hillside,  and  the 

'•  Mountain  walls  that  bound 
The  glorious  landscape  spread  around, 
Which,  canopied  by  cloudless  skies, 
A  scene  of  matchless  beauty  lies." 

To  convey  an  idea  of  the  spirit  of  such  a  scene 
would  be  a  task  to  call  forth  all  the  powers  of  a  poet. 
Such  episodes  as  these  remain  a  source  of  inexhaus- 
tible pleasure  for  years  ;  you  have  but  to  close  your 
eyes  and  you  may  see  it  all  again,  long  after  your 
discriminating  memory  has  cast  out  all  the  disagreeable 
things.  The  strangeness  of  that  marvelous  combination 
—  Roman  towers,  groves,  the  great  town  beneath  with 
its  vesper  bells  sounding  through  the  still  evening  air, 
the  vast  plain  and  the  gigantic  snow-peaks  —  is  not 
less  impressive  than  its  beauty.  No  wonder  that  poets 


1 1 2  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

and  painters  celebrate  this  wonderful  corner  of  the 
world !  In  the  twilight,  on  a  ruined  tower's  platform, 
it  is  easy  to  forget  petty  griefs,  and  to  believe  that  life 
contains  more  of  beauty  than  of  ugliness. 

The  subtle  influences  of  the  place  and  time  so 
affected  Hermano  that  he  improvised  the  following 
legend  of  the  Vermilion  Towers  :  — 

"  Long  before  the  days  of  His  Whitewashing 
Majesty  Carlos  Ouinto,  when  tourists  were  unknown 
and  Christians  were  at  a  discount  in  this  region,  the 
eminent  and  highly  esteemed  Abou  Mansard  came 
over  here  from  Morocco,  where  he  had  made  a  fortune 
in  the  manufacture  of  a  well-known  brand  of  prayer- 
rugs,  and  bought  the  towers  yonder  (then  known  as 
the  old  Phoenician  grain-elevators),  for  the  purpose 
of  making  his  summer  home  there.  He  brought  his 
wives  with  him,  and  his  daughters,  among  them  the 
lovely  and  fascinating  Tortilla,  who  wore  red  slippers 
turned  up  at  the  toes,  not  over  two  inches  long,  and, 
among  other  clothes,  a  brass  necklace  which  was  con- 
sidered very  nobby.  Same  as  you  see  on  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli,  don't  you  know  ?  Ab.  went  to  work  and  fitted 
up  his  towers  regardless  of  expense.  He  had  that 
odd-looking  terrace,  which  has  dungeons  under  it, 
thrown  out  on  the  right,  to  afford  an  open-air  prome- 
nade for  the  women,  and  he  introduced  all  the  ancient 
improvements — fountains,  arabesques,  tiles,  grotto- 
work,  till  you  could  n't  rest.  He  became  quite 
influential  in  the  Alhambra,  and  was  regarded  as  one 


The  Alhambra,  ivith  a  Legend.  1 13 

of  the  solid  men.  One  day  he  bagged  a  young 
Christian  Knight  down  towards  Antequera  in  a 
skirmish,  and  brought  him  home  as  a  captive,  placing 
him  in  one  of  the  best  dungeons.  The  name  of  the 
unfortunate  Spaniard  was  Don  Miguel  Dulce  Cabello 
de  Angel,  and  he  was  a  Christiana  viejo  from  'way 
back,  with  a  pedigree  as  long  as  your  arm,  and 


a  brilliant  pair  of  black  eyes  and  an  arched  instep. 
It  would  make  you  wild  with  envy  to  see  him  roll 
a  cigarette,  and  for  graceful  and  daring  horsemanship 
he  took  the  cake.  Tortilla  was  walking  on  the  terrace 
one  evening  when  she  heard  the  young  prisoner 
singing  in  a  mellow  tenor  voice  a  Castilian  ditty ;  it 
was  thus  he  whiled  away  the  weary  hours  in  his  lonely 
cell.  The  sound  seemed  to  proceed  from  beneath  her 
very  feet,  and  her  susceptible  nature  was  stirred  to  its 


ii4  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

depths,  for  she  had  never  before  heard  the  soulful 
strains  of  '  Little  Buttercup '  and  '  The  Last  Rose  of 
Summer.'  She  ran  to  the  parapet  with  a  tumultuously 
throbbing  heart,  and  leaned  over  as  far  as  she  could, 
but  all  she  could  make  out  in  the  dusk  was  a  small 
window,  about  the  size  of  a  porthole,  in  the  wall  about 
six  feet  below  the  top.  The  sounds  of  music  now 
appeared  to  her  to  come  from  that  window,  and  they 
were  sadder  than  ever,  for  Don  Miguel  was  feeling 
all  broken  up,  and  had  begun  to  sing  *  Put  Me  in  My 
Little  Bed.'  As  soon  as  he  had  finished,  Tortilla  gave 
a  little  cough. 

"'  Ahem! ' 

11  It  was  heard.  In  a  moment  the  noble  Don's  head 
was  thrust  out  of  the  window,  —  but  he  was  looking 
down  into  the  grove  below. 

"  'Ahem  ! '  repeated  Tortilla. 

"  He  looked  up,  and  said,  with  sudden  admiration : 
'  What  a  daisy  ! ' 

"  Tortilla  could  not  comprehend  this  Christian 
compliment,  but  she  blushed,  and  asked  the  gentleman 
what  was  his  name  and  how  he  came  to  be  so  miserably 
situated.  When  he  had  explained  matters,  she  intro- 
duced herself  in  turn,  and  they  continued  their 
conversation  until  Tortilla,  saying  she  feared  she  would 
be  missed  in  the  castte  if  she  stayed  longer,  bade  her 
new  acquaintance  a  sweet  good-night,  much  to  his 
sorrow,  and  retired,  leaving  him  in  a  thoroughly 
agitated  condition. 


The  Alhambra,  with  a  Legend.  1 15 

"  '  A  mash  ! '  he  groaned,  as  he  sank  back  upon  his 
rude  couch,  torn  with  a  perfect  bull-fight  of  emotions, 
'  and  here  I  am  in  durance  vile,  with  no  way  of  escape/ 

"  But  Tortilla  came  again  to  the  parapet,  every 
evening  when  there  was  no  one  else  on  the  terrace  to 
see  her,  and  they  had  many  hours  of  affectionate 
converse.  In  the  meantime  old  Ab.  did  not  tumble 
to  the  racket. 

One  evening  Tortilla  said  to  Don  Miguel :  — 

"  *  I  have  good  news  for  you.  They  say  that  the 
Cid  is  coming  with  a  big  army  of  Christians,  and  that 
he  has  sworn  to  conquer  Granada  this  time,  if  it  takes 
a  leg.' 

"  *  Hooray ! '  cried  Don  Miguel. 

"  '  But  if  my  governor  should  kick  the  bucket  in  the 
fray,  it  would  be  a  cold  day  for  me/  said  the  Moorish 
maid,  pensively. 

"  '  Never  mind,  Tortilla  mia,  I  will  wed  thee  at  once, 
and  don't  you  forget  it/  ejaculated  the  impulsive 
knight,  throwing  her  a  kiss. 

"  As  she  had  announced,  the  Cid  with  his  hosts  was 
getting  ready  to  go  for  'em,  and  not  long  afterwards 
there  was  a  red-hot  combat  down  on  the  Vega.  Don 
Miguel  could  not  see  the  fun  from  his  porthole,  but  he 
could  hear  the  Spaniards  shouting  out  their  battle- 
song  :  — 

'  Debout !  enfants  de  1'Iberie  ! 
Haut  les  glaives  et  haut  les  coeurs  ! 
Des  paiens  nous  serons  vainqueurs, 
Ou  nous  raourrons  pour  la  patrie  ! ' 


1 1 6  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

"  The  battle  was  long  and  severe.  About  noon, 
when  victory  seemed  about  to  perch  upon  the  standards 
of  the  Moors,  both  sides  retired  to  take  their  customary 
siestas,  after  which  they  began  again,  and  at  the  close 
of  a  struggle  of  unequaled  fierceness,  the  heathen  were 
beaten,  having  been  outnumbered  two  to  one.  The 
Cid,  accompanied  by  Felipe  Segundo,  Carlos  Quinto, 
and  others  of  his  staff,  took  possession  of  the  place. 
Don  Miguel  regained  his  freedom,  and  taking  the 
blushing  Tortilla  by  the  hand,  he  led  her  into  the 
presence  of  the  Cid,  and  announced  that  he  would  like 
to  espouse  her. 

"  '  What  are  you  giving  us,  Don  Miguel  ?  '  said  the 
Cid,  wrathfully ;  *  she  is  a  heathen  jade.  Besides  I 
had  picked  her  out  for  myself/ 

"  Without  commenting  upon  the  inconsistency  of 
the  great  warrior,  Don  Miguel  contented  himself 
with  remarking  that  the  maiden  had  plighted  her 
troth  to  him,  and  that  he  would  die  sooner  than  give 
her  up! 

"  The  Cid  was  a  wily  old  chap,  and  had  an  extensive 
knowledge  of  human  nature.  Turning  to  Tortilla,  he 
said :  '  It  must  be  for  you  to  choose  between  us,  my 
dear.  If  you  choose  Don  Miguel,  I  shall  be  under  the 
painful  necessity  of  drinking  his  gore  by  the  quart. 
If  you  choose  me,  you  will  be  rich  and  happy,  besides 
being  the  wife  of  the  greatest  fighter  that  ever  lived ; 
in  fact,  you  will  be  the  Cidess.' 

"True   to   the   treacherous   and  mercenary   nature 


Tke  Alkambra,  with  a  Legend. 


117 


of  her  sex,  the  false  creature  decided  in  favor  of  the 
Cid,  and  was  married  to  him  with  great  eclat  at  once. 
"  Don  Miguel  Dulce  Cabello  de  Angel  went  to  the 
highest  platform  of  the  highest  tower,  drew  a  razor 
from  his  pocket,  and  in  the  view  of  all  the  grandees 


of  Castile,  Leon,  Aragon,  Catalonia,  Navarre,  La 
Mancha,  Valencia,  Murcia,  Estremadura,  Andalusia, 
the  Asturias,  Galicia,  the  Basque  Provinces,  and  New 
Jersey,  he  spilled  the  richest,  reddest,  bluest  blood  in 
all  Spain  all  over  the  towers,  —  hence  the  Vermilion 
Towers." 

As  Hermano   concluded  his  legend,  the  towers    at 


n8 


Spanish  Ways  and  By -ways. 


which  we  were  gazing  assumed  a  more  distinct  and 
pronounced  hue  of  color,  as  the  last  faint  reflection 
from  the  ruddy  Western  skies  lingered  about  their 
ancient  battlements. 

"See!"    I    said:      "The    towers    are    blushing   on 
account   of  the  lies  told  about  them." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

GRANADA. 

DOWN  in  the  city  it 
was  unspeakably  hot, 
and  we  spent  very  little 
time  there.  Nicolas 
persuaded  us  that  we 
ought  to  devote  at  least 
one  day  to  the  sights  of 
the  town,  so  we  started 
early  in  the  morning, 
and  went  first  to  the 
cathedral.  This  is  a 
most  repulsive  structure,  which  inspired  Hermano  with 
a  sudden  and  violent  aversion  for  Catholicism.  The 
numerous  mean  chapels  are  full  of  tawdry  ecclesiastical 
bric-a-brac  and  impossible  works  of  art.  The  old 
women  kneeling  in  front  of  the  altars  got  up  from  their 
prayers  to  beset  us  for  alms,  and  followed  us  about 
until  they  got  something.  Nicolas  carried  about  a 
lighted  cigarette,  which  he  perilously  concealed  in  the 
pocket  of  his  coat,  enjoying  a  surreptitious  whiff  once 
in  a  while  in  an  obscure  chapel.  The  six  enormous 
paintings,  by  Alonso  Cano,  which  adorn  the  capilla 
mayor  are  in  the  most  artificial  and  formal  vein,  and  we 


I2O  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

found  it  easy  to  believe  that  the  author  of  such  mon- 
strous works  was  capable  of  murdering  his  wife  :  he 
certainly  had  no  feeling.  To  go  from  the  Alhambra 
down  into  such  a  dismal,  whitewashed  granite  barrack 
as  this  cathedral  is  enough  to  make  a  Christian  wish 
himself  "a  pagan  suckled  by  a  creed  outworn."  The 
capilla  real  contains  the  mortal  remains  of  the.  Catholic 
sovereigns  Ferdinand  and  Isabella.  A  richly  sculptured 
sarcophagus  of  marble,  with  recumbent  alabaster  effi- 
gies of  the  pious  conquerors  of  Granada,  surmounts 
the  narrow  vault  where  the  leaden  coffins  are.  We 
did  not  go  down  there,  but,  among  the  many  favorite 
"gags"  derived  from  Ford's  highly  amusing  volume, 
this  struck  us  as  especially  funny;  "  Tomb  of  Ferdi- 
nand and  Isabella.  .  .  ,  Mind  your  head."  The  place 
is  impressive  in  spite  of  the  cheap,  theatrical  accessories 
and  the  junkshop  atmosphere.  One  thinks  of  Prescott, 
and,  for  the  second  time  in  Granada,  feels  a  thrill  of 
patriotic  pride. 

To  go  to  the  Carthusian  monastery  we  took  a  car- 
riage, and  monopolized  what  room  there  was  in  the 
streets,  forcing  pedestrians  to  skip  into  the  doorways, 
and  several  times  causing  a  blockade  of  mules. 
Nicolas  was  happy.  This  sort  of  thing  just  suited 
him,  and  the  cracking  of  the  driver's  whip  seemed 
to  afford  him  the  most  unalloyed  pleasure.  As  we 
meandered  through  the  crooked  ways,  past  houses 
decorated  with  all  sorts  of  odd  green,  pink,  and  blue 
designs,  under  little  balconies  half  hid  by  coarse 


Granada.  121 

curtains,  he  became  communicative,  and  gossiped 
in  a  genial  way  about  his  life  and  adventures.  There 
is  no  subject  so  interesting  to  a  man  as  himself. 

It  was  true,  he  said,  that  when  you  met  ladies  of 
your  acquaintance  at  a  restaurant  or  a  cafe,  it  was 
proper  to  call  the  waiter  to  you  and  quickly  pay  their 
bill  ;  this  was  one  of  the  little  points  of  etiquette 
about  which  we  had  entertained  doubts.  He  gave 
us  illustrations  from  his  own  experience  and  obser- 
vation, and  he  scoffed  at  the  suggestion  that  ladies 
might  be  apt  to  go  to  places  where  they  would  be 
certain  to  meet  their  male  friends,  —  that  is,  they 
would  not  do  so  from  mercenary  motives,  he  added, 
with  a  wink.  The  Cartuja  proved  to  be  interesting, 
though  the  monks  have  all  gone,  and  with  them  many 
works  of  art.  The  church  and  chapels  contain  a  large 
amount  and  variety  of  fine  marbles,  carved  with  more 
or  less  artistic  success.  The  arabesques  in  the  church 
are  of  wonderful  intricacy  and  abundance.  At  one 
end  of  a  long  bare  hall,  there  is  a  cross,  high  up 
on  the  white  wall,  against  which  it  stands  out  in 
relief.  Nicolas  asked  us  of  what  wood  we  thought 
the  cross  was  made.  When  we  had  guessed,  he  took 
us  up  close  enough  to  demonstrate  that  it  was  painted 
on  the  wall  itself. 

The  Granada  beggars  are  the  most  troublesome 
of  all  their  tribe,  and  there  are  few  places  to  which 
they  do  not  penetrate.  Nicolas  introduced  us  to  the 
gypsy  quarter  on  the  steep  hill  of  the  Albaycin,  and 


122  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

we  entered  a  squalid  cave-dwelling  inhabited  by  2 
blear-eyed  brigand  of  a  blacksmith,  his  excessive!) 
dirty  children,  and  a  couple  of  black  pigs,  —  "local 
color  !  "  —  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  a  couple  of  horrid 
youngsters  dance  a  bolero.  When  the  performance 
was  about  concluded,  in  a  thoughtless  moment 
Hermano  took  a  few  coppers  from  his  pocket  and  gave 
them  to  the  children.  Presto !  in  less  time  than  it 
takes  to  tell  it,  a  score  of  hideous  creatures  swarmed 
about  us  with  frantic,  vociferous  appeals  and  threaten- 
ing looks  and  gestures.  They  seemed  to  spring  out 
of  the  ground.  We  were  taken  by  surprise,  and  it 
cost  us  a  pretty  penny  to  get  out  of  the  place,  for 
of  course  k  did  no  good  under  such  circumstances 
to  repeat  "  Perdone  Usted,  por  Dios,  hermano  !  "  The 
wretches  chased  us  until  Nicolas  showed  fight,  and  we 
were  soon  out  of  their  territory.  This  is  the  part 
of  Granada  containing  the  most  remains  of  Moorish 
dwellings,  and  in  several  patios  their  light,  delicate, 
airy,  and  graceful  architectural  effects  may  be  found, 
in  greater  or  less  perfection.  Here  are  the  "bits" 
that  Fortuny  alone  could  paint,  —  the  vast  expanse 
of  white  wall,  half  in  shadow  and  half  in  light,  the 
great  arched  portal  giving  access  to  the  cool  interior 
with  its  slim  pillars,  its  arabesques  and  tiles,  its  swing- 
ing lamps,  its  inlaid  doors,  its  fountains,  alcoves, 
alabaster  pavement,  and  glimpses  of  embowered 
gardens  beyond.  Nothing  is  wanting  but  the  Moor 
himself,  as  Fortuny  represented  him,  sitting  cross- 


Granada.  123 

legged  on  his  rug,  contemplating  space,  and  busily 
thinking  about  nothing.  Some  one  has  said  that 
what  Chopin  is  to  music  Fortuny  is  to  art,  and  that 
both  of  them  "have  more  of  the  gypsy  wildness  and 
strangeness  of  Spain  in  their  works  than  of  the  sweet, 
classical  composure  of  Italy,  or  of  the  sharp,  graceful 
esprit  of  France." 

The  Generalife  was  a  royal  summer  residence  of 
the  Moors,  and  occupied  a  higher  site  than  the  Alham- 
bra,  on  a  hillside  commanding  a  very  extensive  pros- 
pect. All  that  is  left  of  it,  beyond  a  few  bare  apart- 
ments whose  beautiful  arabesques  have  been  white- 
washed, is  the  romantic  garden,  irrigated  by  countless 
little  brooks  and  fountains,  and  overgrown  with  a  riot- 
ous abundance  of  tropical  plants,  trees,  and  flowers. 
Winding  paths  everywhere  serve  but  to  lose  you  in 
a  sweet-scented  jungle  of  blooming  shrubbery.  The 
bees  bustle  about  with  great  energy,  too  much  occu- 
pied to  take  note  of  human  intruders  ;  and  the  gurg- 
ling of  unseen  rills  is  everywhere  heard.  A  grove 
of  aloes,  orange-trees,  laurels,  fig-trees,  evergreens, 
pomegranates,  jasmins,  cacti,  and  I  know  not  what 
other  growths,  forms  the  approach  to  this  exquisite 
retreat.  The  gardens  are  terraced,  and  at  the  highest 
point  rises  a  belvedere  from  which  you  look  down 
upon  the  Generalife,  the  Alhambra,  the  city,  and  the 
vast  plain.  This  view  is  more  comprehensive  than  that 
from  the  bell-tower  of  the  Alhambra,  but  not  prefer- 
able, for  the  sight  of  the  Alhambra  itself  from  above 


124 


Spanish  Ways  and  By-ivays. 


is    not    edifying,    the    renaissance    palace    begun    by 
Charles  V  being  the  most  prominent  object. 

Granada  is  a  place  of  surpassing  interest  and  inex- 
plicable charm.  The  situation  is  perfect,  the  associa- 
tions romantic  in  the  extreme,  and  the  surroundings 
are  remarkably  picturesque.  But  to  leave  the  place, 
one  has  to  be  awaked  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
We  wrote  in  the  visitors'  book  that  we  were  "  sorry 
to  depart  so  early,"  which  was  doubly  true.  And 
if  we  heaved  a  Boabdillian  sigh,  it  was  with  the 
thought  of  the  long,  hot  ride  to  Cordova  which  was 
before  us. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

CORDOVA. 

IT  is  impossible  to  be- 
lieve that  in  the  time  of 
the  Moors,  when  their 
European  dominion  was 
seeing*  its  palmiest  days, 
Cordova  —  this  sleepiest 
of  cities,  deep  in  a  perpet- 
ual siesta  —  was  a  great 
metropolis,  counting  her 
inhabitants  by  the  million 
and  her  mosques  by  the 
hundred.  The  only  thing 
that  seems  real  to  the 
memory  is  the  heat.  At  the  Swiss  Hotel  our  room 
was  on  the  ground  floor  ;  the  sunlight  was  excluded 
by  heavy  wooden  shutters ;  the  floor  was  of  brick ; 
sweating  jugs  of  water  moistened  the  air;  and  there 
was  plenty  of  soda-water  in  wheezy  syphons  to  be  had. 
But  even  in  the  patio  the  thermometer  indicated  a 
heat  equal  to  92°  Fahrenheit,  and  the  patio,  with  its 
fountain,  marble  pavement,  and  awnings  on  a  level 
with  the  roof,  was  the  coolest  place  in  the  house.  The 


126  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

breeze  which  came  from  the  street  was  like  a  blast 
from  the  furnace  of  an  iron  foundry.  Even  at  night 
there  was  no  relief,  the  mercury  dropping  only  four  or 
five  degrees.  One  could  do  nothing  but  lie  on  a  divan 
in  one's  shirt  sleeves,  read  novels,  smoke  cigarettes, 
and  wield  a  fan.  No  one  in  such  a  climate  pretends 
to  do  any  work.  What  few  exertions  are  necessary  are 
put  forth  in  the  early  morning,  before  the  sun  has  got 
fairly  up,  when  the  pavements  and  walls  are  giving 
out  the  least  heat,  and  when  a  little  shade  can  be 
found.  In  the  course  of  a  long  walk  down  what  must 
be  one  of  the  principal  streets  of  the  town,  only  a 
"  solitary  horseman "  and  a  couple  of  priests  are 
passed.  The  courtyard  adjoining  the  mosque,  with  its 
orange-trees  and  inviting  benches,  affords  a  few 
diminutive  spots  of  shade,  which  are  monopolized 
by  soldiers,  priests,  and  beggars.  It  is  a  most  grateful 
sensation  to  be  met  with  a  blast  of  cool,  incense-laden 
air  from  the  interior  as  you  push  back  the  leather- 
bound  doors  at  the  main  portal. 

This  wonderful  edifice,  more  curious  than  beautiful, 
is  the  chief  pride  of  Cordova,  and  has  been  described 
by  thousands  of  travelers.  Every  one  feels  instinctively 
that  the  Christians  are  intruders  in  it,  for  all  the  carved 
retablos  and  fantastic  chapels  in  the  world  cannot  alter 
the  Moorish  character.  It  was  with  this  thought  in 
mind  that  Heine  pictured  Almanzor  ben  Abdullah 
standing  in  "  Cordova's  grand  cathedral,"  and  mur- 
muring — 


Cordova. 


127 


"O  ye  strong  and  giant  pillars, 
Once  adorned  in  Allah's  glory ; 
Now  ye  serve,  and  deck  while  serving, 
The  detested  faith  now  o'er  us." 

What  sort  of  an  idea  of  the  interior  can  be  conveyed 
by  stating-  that  there  are  nineteen  naves  traversed 
by  thirty-three  others,  sup- 
ported by  over  nine  hundred 
columns  of  porphyry,  jasper, 
breccia,  and  many-colored 
marbles?  None  at  all,  or 
at  most  a  very  faint  one. 
Even  when  looking  on  such 
a  thing  it  is  impossible  to 
"  take  it  in  "  or  appreciate  it. 
This  was  the  greatest  Mus- 
sulman temple  in  the  world, 
and  in  the  time  of  the  Moor- 
ish domination  there  were 
no  less  than  fourteen  hun- 
dred pillars,  the  ceiling  was 
of  sculptured  cedar  and 
larch,  the  walls  were  trimmed 
with  marble,  and  eight  hun- 
dred lamps  lighted  the  vast 
edifice.  "  A  sea  of  splen- 
dors," sang  a  poet,  "  filled 
this  mysterious  recess  ;  the 
ambient  air  was  impregnated 


128  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

with  aromas  and  harmonies,  and  the  thoughts  of  the, 
faithful  wandered  and  lost  themselves  in  the  labyrinth 
of  columns,  which  gleamed  like  lances  in  the  sunshine." 
Every  one  came  to  dinner  at  six  o'clock,  in  the 
flimsiest  of  toilettes,  and  there  was  a  prodigious 
flattering  of  fans  and  clinking  of  ice  in  glasses  and 
fizzing  of  syphons.  The  conversation  (we  had  learned 
not  a  little  Spanish  by  this  time)  concerned  the 
weather,  and  each  gentleman  stated  how  high  his 
particular  thermometer  had  been  during  the  day. 
A  party  of  English  people  who  had  just  come  from 
Malaga  cast  a  coolness  over  the  company  by  alleging 
that  the  mercury  was  at  least  ten  degrees  lower 
(Fahrenheit)  in  that  favored  seaport.  Almost  every 
one  had  been  sleeping  during  the  day,  as  is  proper 
and  expedient.  Late  in  the  evening  there  began  to 
be  some  signs  of  life  in  the  streets  We  went  out  for 

o 

a  walk,  but  found  the  pavements  and  white  walls  still 
giving  forth  an  intolerable  heat.  From  the  iron-grated 
windows  of  the  houses  a  draught  of  cold  air  rushed 
out,  laden  with  perfumes  not  precisely  of  Araby  the 
blest.  The  nursery  rhyme  of  the  bachelor  who  had 
to  take  his  wife  home  in  a  wheelbarrow  on  account 
of  the  inconvenient  narrowness  of  the  thoroughfares 
might  have  had  an  appropriate  origin  in  Cordova. 
The  ways  turn  and  twist  in  a  very  confusing  fashion, 
too.  At  midnight  it  began  to  be  a  little  cooler,  and 
there  were  more  people  out  than  there  had  been  at 
any  previous  hour.  This  turning  of  night  into  day  is 


Cordova.  129 

both  novel  and  sensible.  It  is  very  convenient  for 
the  gallants  and  their  Dulcineas,  who,  on  opposite 
sides  of  a  window-grating,  exchange  amorous  glances 
and  vows  which  may  possibly  be  kept.  Who  knows  ? 


CHAPTER    XVI. 


BACK    IN    THE    CAPITAL. 

NORTHWARD,  in   the   moonlit    night,  the    long   train 
swept  leisurely  across  those  wide  and  solemn  uplands 

of  La  Mancha,  while  the 
bald-headed  Spaniard  in 
the  opposite  corner  of 
the  coupe  purred  the 
praises  of  Morpheus 
through  his  open  mouth 
with  a  frightful  regular- 
ity. At  one  station  — 
^  must  have  been  long 
after  midnight  when 

S 

we  halted  there  —  a 
party  of  pretty  damsels 

was  promenading  up  and  down  the  long  platform, 
enjoying  the  freshness  of  the  night  air,  and  when 
Hermano,  forgetting  that  he  had  tied  a  white  hand- 
kerchief over  his  head  in  lieu  of  a  nightcap,  thrust  his 
head  out  of  the  window,  there  was  an  explosion  of 
merry  girlish  laughter. 

Madrid  was  hot,  but  not  by  any  means  so  hot  as 
Cordova,  and  it  seemed  quite  homelike  and  comfort- 
able. To  a  charming  little  darkened  room  on  the  Calle 


Back  in  the  Capital.  131 

de  Carmen  the  familiar  strains  of  "  Les  Cloches  de 
Corneville  "  came  Moating  in  at  the  balconied  windows 
from  a  big  Neapolitan  hand-organ  ;  the  Puerta  del 
Sol  was  as  animated  as  ever  ;  the  people  about  the 
house  spoke  French;  the  horchata  de  chufas  was  as 
cool  and  refreshing  as  could  be  desired  ;  the  Corre- 
spondencia  gave  the  latest  news  about  the  state  of 
President  Garfield's  health  and  the  French  invasion 
of  Tunis;  and — last  but  not  least — the  pictures  in 
the  great  gallery  seemed  to  welcome  us  back  like  old 
friends.  There  were  two  New  Yorkers  at  the  Fonda 
de  la  Paz,  a  clergyman  and  a  physician,  who  were 
quite  discouraged  by  the  heat,  until  we  introduced 
them  to  a  horchateria.  The  clergyman  was  undecided 
about  going  to  a  bull-fight  on  Sunday.  He  did 
not  ask  our  advice,  but  we  ventured  to  offer  it  gratui- 
tously Unfortunately  one  of  us  advised  him  to  go, 
and  the  other  counselled  him  to  remain  away,  so  that 
he  was  left  in  the  same  perplexed  state  of  mind.  I 
do  not  know  what  would  have  become  of  his  con- 
science if  it  had  not  happened  that  one  of  the  leading 
espadas  was  suddenly  taken  ill  and  the  corrida  was 
postponed  from  Sunday  to  Wednesday.  The  clergy- 
man went.  An  Englishman  was  also  among  the 
new  arrivals  at  the  hotel.  He  was  a  marine-surveyor, 
from  Liverpool  for  Gibraltar,  two  days  out,  and  had 
put  in  for  repairs,  as  it  were.  Although  his  busi- 
ness took  him  to  all  parts  of  the  earth,  he  did  not 
speak  any  language  but  his  own.  He  pronounced 


Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 


Spain  a  miserable  country,  and  the  Spaniards  miser- 
able creatures.  I  quite  won  his  heart  by  expressing 
my  admiration  for  Gladstone,  and  before  leaving  the 
capital  he  made  himself 
very  agreeable  to  us,  in- 
sisting on  taking  us  to  ride 
in  the  Retiro  at  his  ex- 
pense, probably  to  show 
his  knowledge  of  the 
noble  American  custom  of 
"treating."  He  continued 
to  rail  at  the  natives, 
ridiculed  the  powder  and 
paint  on  the  ladies'  faces, 
and  remarked  pleasantly 
of  the  people  whom  he 
had  met  on  the  railroad,  that  he  could  "  smell  their 
'ides."  He  further  observed  that  he  had  his  opinion 
of  a  people  who  called  potatoes  patatas.  He  had 
traveled  in  the  United  States,  and  took  a  great 
interest  in  President  Garfield's  condition,  which  was 
at  that  time  thought  to  be  hopeful.  The  secretary  of 
the  hotel  also  discussed  American  politics  with  great 
profundity  ;  he  thought  that  if  the  masses  had  their 
way  Senor  Elaine  would  be  President.  He  informed 
us  that  the  Southern  Americans  were  much  more 
intelligent  than  the  Northerners,  who  were  the  canalla. 
By  Southerners  he  meant,  evidently,  the  inhabitants  of 
South  America.  It  may  not  be  generally  known  here, 


Back  in  the  Capital. 


133 


but  it  appears  that  the  late  war  of  the  Rebellion  was 
between  North  America  and  South  America.  When 
we  were  seated  in  the  carriage,  ready  to  start  for  a  ride 
after  dinner,  and  the  driver  was  waiting"  for  the  \vord, 
our  British  friend  turned  to  me,  and  said,  gravely:  — 
"  Tell  'im  to  hallez.  That  generally  fetches  'em." 
All  foreign  languages  were  the  same  to  him,  and 
all  foreigners  also,  probably.  As  we  rode  through 
the  Retiro,  the  driver,  who  spoke  French,  turned  to 
me  and  said  the  Princess's  carriage  was  just  ahead 


of  us.  I  urged  him  to  catch  up  with  it,  so  that  we 
might  see  the  Princess  ;  and  he  tried  to  clo  so,  but  in 
vain.  The  Princess  had  two  horses  and  we  had  but 
one.  "Ah,  bah!  monsieur,"  said  our  discomfited 
driver,  "  eight  legs  are  better  than  four." 


134  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

I  make  a  note  of  this  remark  to  illustrate  the 
Spanish  fondness  for  shaping  everything  into  epigrams 
and  proverbial  sayings.  When  I  complained  of  the 
high  price  asked  for  berths  on  the  sleeping-car, 
the  good-humored  response  was  that  berths  were 
"  comme  les  petits  gateaux  " :  in  other  words  they  were 
luxuries  intended  for  those  who  could  afford  not  to 
consider  the  petty  question  of  money.  And  when 
I  asked  a  Madrilenian  whether  the  bulls  were  likely 
to  be  lively  in  a  coming  course,  he  replied  that  one 
could  never  tell  about  bulls,  oranges,  or  women,  until 
one  had  tried  them. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 


THE    ESCORIAL. 


DRIVEN  by  a  false 
sense  of  duty,  we  un- 
dertook the  arduous 
day's  labor  of  seeing 
the  "architectural  night- 
mare" which  forms 
such  an  appropriate 
monument  to  the  most  hateful 
of  tyrants.  Every  one  goes  to 
the  Escorial,  and  many  pretend 
to  admire  it.  The  excursion 
is  not  very  easy.  It  is  neces- 
sary to  quit  Madrid  at  eight  in  the  morning,  and  the 
chances  are  that  you  wall  not  get  back  to  town  before 
half-past  eight  in  the  evening,  though  the  distance  is 
something  less  than  thirty  miles.  To  see  the  people, 
we  took  cheap  excursion  tickets,  and  went  sweltering 
in  a  crowded  car  with  soldiers,  priests,  women,  babies, 
and  great  heaps  of  baskets,  bundles,  and  bags. 
There  was  plenty  of  tobacco-smoke  and  conversation 
on  the  way.  We  rode  from  the  station  up  to  the 
Escorial  village  in  an  omnibus,  and  breakfasted  very 
tolerably  in  the  Fonda  Miranda  off  egg  soup  (with 


136  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

plenty  of  oil,  saffron,  and  pepper  in  it),  a  stewed 
forequarter  of  mule,  a  boiled  fish  of  obscure  origin, 
and  a  good  pot  of  chocolate,  with  a  bit  of  Burgos 
cheese,  exhaling  that  same  old  familiar  odor.  The 
Fonda  Miranda,  in  fact,  is  an  "  antiguo  y  acreditado 
establecimiento,"  in  spite  of  the  assaults  of  its  rival, 
the  Fonda  de  la  Rosa,  which  announces  that  it  is  the 
"  establecimiento  inmediato  al  monasterio." 

For  several  long  hours  we  wandered  about  the 
Escorial,  in  a  listless  and  depressed  fashion,  under 
the  guidance  of  a  matronly  female  who  heroically 
defended  us  against  the  blandishments  and  wiles  of 
the  other  guides.  We  had  until  then  entertained 
a  remote  enmity  to  Felipe  Segundo,  but  now  we  hated 
him  with  an  active,  intimate  hatred,  and  believed  the 
most  malignant  tales  that  ever  were  told  of  his  cruelty 
and  treachery.  The  whole  vast  pile  is  in  full  harmony 
with  the  character  of  its  founder,  whose  heart  was  of 
granite,  as  cold  and  clammy  as  the  touch  of  a  reptile. 
Yet  Philip's  portraits  do  not  make  him  look  so  hard  as 
weak.  He  was  of  a  light  complexion,  with  a  protrud- 
ing lower  lip,  and  calm  gray  eyes  which  have  less 
of  deviltry  than  of  stupidity  in  them ;  and  his  neatly 
trimmed  beard  was  worn  in  exactly  the  style  in  vogue 
at  present  in  Paris.  In  the  portrait  by  Pantoja,  he  is 
represented  in  a  close-fitting  black-velvet  doublet,  and 
holds  in  his  white  hands  a  chaplet. 

"  Scarfs,  garters,  gold  amuse  his  riper  stage, 
And  beads  and  prayer-books  are  the  toys  of  age." 


The  Escorial.  137 

That  the  monastery  was  built  in  the  form  of  a  gridiron, 
in  honor  of  Saint  Lawrence's  warm  martyrdom,  is  a 
widely  diffused  and  interesting  tradition,  which  may  be 
true.  But  a  gridiron  is  picturesque,  nay  statuesque, 
in  comparison  with  the  Escorial.  A  gridiron  has 
some  suggestiveness,  some  human  interest,  some 
warmth  of  style  about  it,  as  it  were.  Thus,  a  gridiron 
is  far  more  beautiful  than  the  Escorial,  if  not  so  large. 
After  wandering  about  for  a  long  time  in  the  grim, 
great  church,  the  chapels  and  the  sacristy,  the  library 
and  the  pantheon,  the  palace  and  the  galleries,  we  sat 
down  to  rest  in  one  of  the  long  cloisters,  where  we 
had  a  comfortable  smoke  in  company  with  two  jolly 
young  monks,  who  could  have  given  a  lesson  to  Mark 
Tapley  himself  in  the  art  of  being  cheerful  under  trying 
circumstances.  The  stone  walls  of  the  cloister  were 
decorated  with  atrocious  paintings  of  martyrdoms  and 
tortures,  battles  and  burnings.  The  seats  were  of 
stone,  and  long  rows  of  square  stone  pillars  stretched 
away  on  either  hand.  A  small  area  of  adventurous 
sunlight  was  visible  near  the  centre  of  the  enclosure, 
but  everywhere  else  it  was  dark  and  chilly.  Presently 
we  visited  the  cell  of  one  of  the  monks.  It  was  about 
the  size  of  a  stateroom  on  an  Atlantic  steamship,  but 
smelled  sweeter,  and  maintained  its  status  quo  better. 
A  scanty  allowance  of  sunlight  fell  through  the  gratings 
of  the  little  window  and  lay  upon  the  bare  floor.  The 
walls  were  whitewashed  neatly.  A  wooden  bench  and 
a  couch  of  severe  plainness,  a  little  shelf  bearing  a 


138 


Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 


crucifix  and  some  books,  were  the  only  furnishings. 
There  were  several  hundred  cells  precisely  like  this 
one,  but  few  of  them  were  occupied.  Their  nakedness 
and  poverty  contrasted  vividly  with  the  superb  appoint- 
ments of  the  palace,  not  more  than  a  stone's-throw 
distant,  though  even  the  fine  tapestries  and  splendid 
inlaid  woodwork  of  the  royal  apartments  wore  the 
melancholy  aspect  of  abandoned  glories.  In  the 
chapter-house  is  a  famous  composition  by  Velasquez, 
"  Jacob  Receiving  Joseph's  Coat."  It  was  painted  in 
Italy.  The  figures  are  six  in  number  and  are  literally 
copied  from  Spanish  types  of  the  day.  The  design  is 
notably  good,  and  there  is  a  very  strong  effect  of  light 
and  shade.  Among  other  paintings  carefully  secluded 
here  is  Tintoret's  "  Washing  of  Feet,"  a  dignified 
composition,  with  four  or  five  distinct  groups,  making 
a  total  of  more  than  a  dozen  figures,  all  of  them 
interesting,  against  an  architectural  background.  Luca 
Giordano's  frescos  are  interesting  ;  and  the  Hall  of 
Battles,  with  its  mural  paintings  of  half  a  dozen  conflicts 
on  land  and  sea,  is  an  amusing 
place.  A  look  at  the  squalid  room 
where  Philip  ended  his  odious 
career,  and  where  the  visitor  may 
still  see  his  bed,  table,  desk,  and 
chair, —  relics  which  are  as  carefully 
preserved  as  the  bones  of  any 
saint,  —  and  we  were  quite  ready 
to  go,  very  well  satisfied  to  get  out 


77/6'  Escorial*  139 

into  the  fresh  air,  and  bid  farewell  to  the  Escorial. 
We  sauntered  down  through  the  gardens  on  the 
slope  of  the  hill,  and  went  through  the  Prince's  house, 
a  miniature  palace  full  of  interesting  cabinet  paintings. 
The  train  for  Madrid  was  half  an  hour  late  when  it 
rolled  up  to  the  Escorial  station,  and  it  stopped  there 
one  hour  precisely,  so  that  it  arrived  at  Madrid  an 
hour  and  a  half  behind  time.  This  was  such  a  common 
incident  of  travel  that  it  occasioned  little  or  no  comment 
among  the  passengers.  More  soldiers,  priests,  women, 
babies,  conversation,  and  smoke,  —  and  at  last  we  are 
back  in  Madrid,  in  time  for  dinner  at  the  festive  hour 
of  nine  p.  M. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

LITERATURE    OF   THE    BULL-RING. 

THE  Art  of  Bull- 
fighting has  its  recog- 
nized laws,  and  an  able 
exponent  of  its  prin- 
ciples is  La  Lidicit  a 
weekly  periodical  pub- 
lished in  Madrid.  It 
appears  on  the  day  fol- 
lowing a  bull-fight,  with 
a  detailed  report  of  the 
affair,  a  criticism  of  the 
matadores,  an  editorial 
article  on  some  subject  connected  with  the  ring,  and 
a  chromo-lithograph  representing  some  torero  in  the 
act  of  making  a  difficult  pass.  It  is  amusing  to 
see  on  what  an  elevated  plane  the  writers  place  the 
Art.  They  talk  of  an  espada  being  born  and  not 
made;  of  the  difficulties  and  dangers  of  the  profession ; 
of  its  inexhaustible  attractions  to  the  genuine  connois- 
seur; of  the  rewards  of  excellence  in  the  arena ;  of  the 
folly  of  entering  into  the  race  unless  one  is  impelled 
by  a  real  love  of  the  Art ;  of  the  meanness  of  those 


Literature  of  the  Bull-ring.  141 

who  take  it  up  merely  to  make  money  out  of  it ;  and 
of  the  boundless  enthusiasm  of  the  great  masters  now 
dead  and  gone,  who  won  undying  fame  in  the  ring 
because  to  them  the  Arte  taurino  was  a  vocation,  and 
they  loved  it.  "  Ah !  there  was  Pepe  Hillo,  for 
instance — he  was  a  thorough  espada!"  you  can 
imagine  them  saying,  with  the  reverence  of  a  painter 
in  speaking  of  Titian.  The  whole  subject  is  regarded 
seriously  as  an  art  question,  and  they  criticize  a 
matador's  every  pass  as  closely  as  the  French  writers 
criticize  the  acting  at  the  Theatre  Fran9ais.  At  the 
same  time  there  is  the  element  of  Sport  in  it.  It  more 
than  occupies  the  place  given  to  horse-races  or  hunting 
in  England,  or  base-ball  in  America.  The  spice  of 
danger  makes  it  a  hundred-fold  more  exciting  than 
anything  of  that  sort.  Accidents  are  of  not  uncommon 
occurrence,  but  they  seldom  prove  fatal,  and  it  is 
almost  invariably  held  that  if  a  torero  is  tossed  by 
a  bull  it  is  his  own  fault.  For  example,  Angel  Pastor, 
a  well-known  Madrid  espada,  was  seriously  wounded 
on  April  10,  1882,  and  La  Lidia  did  not  hesitate  to 
declare  that  it  was  because  of  his  lack  of  courage. 
The  combat  was  the  first  regular  corrida  of  the  season, 
and  Pastor  took  the  place  of  Cara  ancha,  who  had  been 
injured  the  previous  season.  Pastor  was  dressed  in 
a  lilac-and-black  suit ;  four  bulls  had  been  killed  ;  the 
fifth  was  named  Capirote ;  he  was  white  and  black, 
quick,  war}',  and  cross-eyed.  After  the  banderilleros 
had  been  dismissed,  Pastor  displayed  his  cloak  to  the 


142  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

beast,  who  came  at  him  like  a  flash  ("  como  una 
exhalacion").  Just  when  the  fierce  Capirote  was 
within  a  few  feet  of  him,  Pastor  was  seen  to  change 
the  cloak  from  one  hand  to  another,  leaving  his  body 
uncovered.  He  was  caught  and  tossed  by  the  bull, 
falling  near  the  barrier  with  a  severe  wound  in  his 
right  side.  He  tried  to  arise,  but  had  to  lean  against 
the  barrier,  and  was  carried  off  to  the  infirmary  by  the 
assistants.  The  account  does  not  state  how  the  bull's 
attention  was  drawn  away  from  the  wounded  man  by 
the  ever-alert  chulos,  but  that  is  always  taken  for 
granted.  Lagartijo  at  once  entered  the  arena,  and 
after  eight  beautifully  finished  passes,  killed  the 
redoubtable  Capirote  in  superb  style,  amid  tremendous 
cheers.  Poor  Angel  Pastor,  in  the  infirmary,  could 
hear  the  loud  shouts  of  applause  which  greeted  his 
avenger.  La  Lidia,  the  next  day,  said  of  the  wounded 
man  that  he  was  a  torero  of  intelligence,  who  wielded 
his  small  cloak  with  great  skill,  and  seemed  to  know 
what  he  was  about,  but  added,  "  What  a  pity  for  him 
and  for  the  Art  that  he  has  not  more  courage  !  "  This 
was  severe.  Angel  Pastor  recovered,  and  two  months 
after  the  accident  he  was  ready  to  make  his  reappear- 
ance in  the  ring.  It  was  June  n.  His  children,  as 
La  Lidia  fancies,  run  to  him  to  watch  him  as  he 
makes  his  preparations,  arranging  his  elaborate  toilette, 
looking  to  his  arms,  polishing  his  swords.  "  The 
youngsters  in  playing  about  the  room  discover  in  a 
corner  a  forgotten  silk  vest,  stained  with  blood,  and 


Literature  of  tJie  Bull-ring.  143 

with  a  round  hole  in  the  right  side.  The  baby  takes 
the  garment,  so  lately  bedewed  with  tears,  and  of  it 
makes  a  lovely  dress  for  her  doll !  The  horses  stamp 
impatiently  outside  the  door  where  they  are  waiting 
to  convey  Papa  Pastor  to  the  Plaza  de  Toros.  Friendly 
hands  grasp  his  as  he  mounts,  and  as  he  proceeds 
shouts  of  enthusiastic  welcome  rend  the  air  on  every 
side ;  but  amid  the  din  he  meditates,  and  his  face 
remains  grave.  *  I  alone  am  left  to  my  children/  he 
says  to  himself,  '  and  I  am  now  about  entering  a 
conflict  which  may  make  orphans  of  them.'  Then, 
the  sight  of  the  vast  plaza  is  horrible  to  him,  and  the 
bicolored  banners  fluttering  so  proudly  at  the  tops  of 
the  tall  staffs  seem  the  auguries  of  Death." 

"  Can  much  be  expected,"  asks  La  Lidia,  "  of  one 
who  in  the  presence  of  deadly  peril  allows  a  secret 
impulse  of  sentiment  to  weigh  down  his  spirit?  We 
believe  not." 

Then  the  writer  goes  on  to  consider  the  question  in 
its  broad  aspects,  as  follows :  — 

"  We  would  not,"  he  says,  "  deprive  the  torero  of 
his  domestic  affections ;  not  at  all ;  but,  above  and 
beyond  these  human  ties,  above  and  beyond  these 
tender  attachments  and  the  various  forms  of  sensibility, 
we  conceive  that  there  exists,  and  must  exist,  for  the 
torero  a  glorious  thing  which  for  want  of  a  better  name 
we  call  aficion!  Like  the  sailor  who  dares  the  fury 
of  the  ocean's  billows,  like  the  soldier  who  is  first  to 
bare  his  breast  to  the  storm  of  bullets,  so  the  aficionado 


144  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways* 

must  take  his  Art  for  his  only  love,  and  not  for  a  mere 
employment,  —  as  a  cultivated  passion,  not  for  passing' 
gain !  " 

Then  he  tells  about  Pepe  Hillo,  who,  when  suffering 
terrible  agonies  from  a  wound,  turned  to  his  friends 
and  said  (the  first  words  that  came  from  his  fevered 
lips),  "When  shall  I  be  able  to  return  to  the  ring?" 
Another  enthusiastic  lidiador  said,  "  Whenever  I  put 
on  my  jacket  and  girdle  my  sash  about  me,  I  put  my 
wife  away  from  me,  run  to  the  mirror  to  wipe  the  tears 
from  my  face  and  there  to  remember  that  I  am  dressed 
as  a  torero." 

"  What  mean  these  words  from  the  authoritative 
lips  of  our  glorious  taurinas  ?  "  demands  the  eloquent 
writer.  "They  mean  that,  before  our  affections  as 
men,  we  should  keep  the  line  of  duty  firmly  traced. 
They  mean  that  that  torero  is  doubly  in  danger  of 
death  who  does  not  feel  a  gran  aficion,  a  real  passion, 
for  his  perilous  calling ;  who  does  not  prefer  it  to  the 
pleasures  of  home  and  all  the  modest  affections  of 
life,  and  who  does  not  feel  that  for  him  the  Art  is 
a  necessity." 

Now  all  this  rhetoric  was  a  propos  to  poor  Angel 
Pastor,  and  was  in  very  bad  taste,  besides  being 
misapplied,  for  when  Pastor  reappeared,  he  was 
admirably  brave,  killed  his  two  bulls  with  great 
dexterity  and  coolness,  and  was  rewarded  with  immense 
applause.  However,  what  I  have  translated  shows 
very  clearly  the  ground  taken  by  the  Lidia  in  all  its 


Literature  of  the  Bull-ring.  145 

utterances.  The  plea  of  Art  is  ingeniously  made  in 
another  essay,  which  points  out  that  the  competition 
of  the  ring  is  "a  rivalry  of  forces,  just  as  in  all  the 
other  professions  in  life  —  a  rivalry  which  stimulates 
and  excites  the  noblest  of  passions:  that  is,  the 
ambition  of  attaining  to  be  worthy.  To  feel  uplifted  by 
this  desire  is  equal  to  an  extinction  of  all  meanness. 
The  struggle  is  not,  then,  censurable,"  etc.  etc. 

Are  not  these  fine  sentiments  ? 

In  another  number  of  the  Lidia  we  find  a  careful 
and  elaborate  study  of  Frascuelo  and  Lagartijo,  the 
two  leading  espadas  of  Spain.  Frascuelo  and  Lagartijo 
are  noms  de  guerre,  the  real  names  of  these  mighty 
heroes  being  Salvador  Sanchez  and  Raphael  Molina. 
All  Madrid  is  divided  into  two  partisan  camps  respect- 
ing the  merits  of  these  rival  stars.  Frascuelo  probably 
is  the  greater  man ;  at  least  he  wears  the  largest 
brilliants  on  his  embroidered  shirtfront  and  is  followed 
about  in  the  Puerta  del  Sol  by  the  more  numerous 
escort  of  admirers.  A  harder  looking  hero  it  wrould 
be  difficult  to  find.  He  is  of  medium  height,  slight, 
of  swarthy  complexion,  with  curly  gray  hair;  and  his 
bearing  has  all  the  studied  elegance  and  dignity  of  one 
who  knows  himself  worthy  of  the  adoration  he  receives. 
A  wide-brimmed  hat  is  artistically  adjusted  on  one 
side  of  his  head,  and  a  gorgeous  silken  sash  encircles 
his  waist.  Thus  arrayed,  he  spends  the  greater  part 
of  his  time  on  weekdays  loafing  in  the  Cafe  Imperial 
and  its  vicinity,  surrounded  by  a  troop  of  friends  who 


146  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

are  proud  of  the  privilege  of  "  treating"  him,  anxious 
to  guffaw  at  his  slightest  joke,  and  eager  to  hear  with 
solemn  attention  the  words  of  wisdom  that  fall  from 
his  lips.  The  whole  week  is  only  too  short  a  time  in 
which  to  discuss  last  Sunday's  bull-fight  and  prophesy 
as  to  next  Sunday's  performance.  -As  a  torero,  Fra- 
scuelo  is  brave  to  the  point  of  rashness,  and  has  many 
a  time  seemed  to  invite  death  with  a  smiling  face. 
"  He  invites  the  bulls  with  fine  and  elegant  delibera- 
tion ;  handles  his  muleta,  if  not  like  a  great  master, 
splendidly  at  times ;  and  gives  the  finishing-stroke  as 
few  fencers  could,  even  among  the  most  famous  in 
former  days."  Note  the  reverential  tone  of  the 
distinction  in  favor  of  the  old  masters.  In  spite  of 
Frascuelo's  skill  and  coolness,  he  was  once  tossed 
by  a  bull  named  Guindaleto,  in  Madrid.  The  city  was 
in  a  ferment ;  and  the  greatest  concern  was  manifested. 
But  when  he  recovered  from  his  wounds,  a  reaction 
took  place,  and  he  was  so  unpopular  for  a  time  that  it 
was  proposed  to  expel  him  from  the  Court.  However, 
he  reappeared  in  the  arena  one  fine  day,  and  con- 
ducted himself  with  such  brilliant  daring,  and  such 
exceptional  skill,  that  he  reconquered  the  approbation 
of  the  people,  who  are  ever  ready  to  forgive  any  fault 
but  cowardice. 

Besides  Frascuelo  and  Lagartijo,  there  are  minor 
pets  of  the  populace, — El  Gallo  (Fernando  Gomez), 
Cara  ancha  (Jose  Sanchez  del  Campo) ,  Jose  Machia, 
Felipe  Garcia,  Angel  Pastor,  and  others,  —  for  each 


Literature  of  the  Bull-ring.  147 

town  has  its  own  favorites.  El  Gallo  (The  Cock)  is  a 
graduate  of  the  famous  Sevillian  school  of  toreros.  It 
was  in  the  historic  ring  of  the  Andalusian  metropolis 
that  he  made  his  reputation,  and  the  manner  of  it,  as 
related  by  the  Lidia,  was  as  follows  :  — 

He  jumped  into  the  arena  one  day  when  he  had  no 
right  to  be  there,  and,  walking  to  the  very  centre 
of  the  vast  ring,  looked  about  in  an  unconcerned  way, 
drew  a  white  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  placed 
it  on  the  ground  carefully,  and  knelt  upon  it.  There- 
upon the  public  began  to  shout  "Out  with  him!" 
"Take  him  to  jail!"  "He'll  be  killed!"  But  the 
young  man,  paying  no  attention  to  the  outcry,  called 
to  the  bull  and  threw  his  hat  into  the  air.  The  beast 
turned,  and  on  seeing  this  odd  figure  kneeling,  he 
darted  toward  it  like  a  flash. 

The  audience  gave  a  cry  of  horror. 

A  second  later,  and  fright  was  changed  into  enthusi- 
astic and  ecstatic  admiration  ! 

What  had  happened  ? 

El  Gallo,  mocking  the  fury  of  the  bull  as  he  charged, 
had  received  the  terrible  beast  on  his  sword  there  as 
he  knelt,  with  his  breast  almost  touching  the  animal's 
head,  and,  rising  unhurt,  with  the  handkerchief  in  one 
hand,  the  hat  in  the  other,  he  smiled  with  serene  self- 
possession  !  Such  audacity  is  not  approved  by  the 
genuine  lidiadores,  who  are  careful  to  applaud  only 
the  recognized  and  orthodox  practices  of  the  Art. 
But  the  Spanish  public  adores  courage  in  any  form. 


148  Spanish   Ways  and  By-ways. 

Sevilla,  a  famous  picador,  once  attacked  a  bull  out 
of  his  turn,  and  the  people  shouted  "  A  fuera  Sevilla! 
a  ti  no  te  toca!  lo  demasiado  bueno  es  malo."  His 
horse  was  terribly  gored,  having  turned  to  escape  the 
bull,  and  "  the  first  use  which  Sevilla  made  of  his  legs, 
on  regaining  them,  was  to  bestow  as  hearty  a  kick 
as  the  encumbrance  of  his  armor  would  allow,  upon 
the  uplifted  head  of  the  poor  animal.  This  proof 
of  his  unshaken  courage  and  presence  of  mind,  as 
well  as  of  his  brutality,  was  received  with  immense 
applause."  * 

So  quick  are  the  motions  of  the  men  and  the  bull 
that  sometimes  it  is  impossible  to  tell  how  the  toreros 
escape,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  sometimes  it  is  equally 
impossible  to  know  how  it  is  that  an  accident 
happens.  Jose  Candido,  who  was  a  celebrated 
^matador  of  the  last  century,  met  with  a  terrible  death. 
A.  bull  of  unusual  ferocity  and  cunning  happened  to 
be  in  the  ring,  and  followed  up  one  of  the  picadores 
with  such  persistency  that  Candido  interposed  to  save 
the  man's  life.  During  this  episode  Candido  either 
slipped  or  threw  himself  down  purposely  to  avoid  the 
beast's  blow  —  at  all  events  he  was  seen  stretched 
on  the  ground.  The  bull  jumped  over  him,  and  turned 
very  rapidly ;  in  an  instant  he  was  caught  up  and 
tossed,  being  horribly  gored  several  times  in  succession. 
He  was  lifeless  when  picked  up  by  his  aids.  The 
sketch  of  his  career  ends  with  a  particular  mention  of 

*  Ridell,  "  Spain  Revisited." 


Literature  of  the  Bull-ring. 


149 


the    circumstance  that  he    invented  a  certain    way  of 
jumping  over  the  bull's  head. 

The  ordinary  performances  are  often  varied  by  the 
introduction  of  novel  and  fantastic  features.  Among 
the  memorable  occasions  in  the  Madrid  arena  was  a 
fight  between  a  bull  and  several  beasts  of  prey  — 
a  lion,  a  tiger,  and  twenty-eight  bull-dogs.  The  bull 
was  the  victor.  The  dogs  ran  away  from  him. 
Another  very  curious  combat  was  that  between  a  bull 
and  an  enormous  elephant.  The  bull  rushed  upon 
his  adversary,  who  immediately  seized  him  with  his 
trunk,  lifted  him  on  his  tusks  and  threw  him  a  distance 
of  ten  yards,  after  which  he  quietly  stepped  on  him 
and  crushed  the  life  out  of  him. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

BAYONNE,  BIARRITZ,  AND  PAU. 

IN  Bayonne,  —  street  of  Thiers,  —  in  front  of  St. 
Stephen  Hotel.  Sitting  there  in  the  early  evening, 
while  the  breeze  that  heralded  a  coming  thunder- 
shower  swept  clouds  of  dust  down  the  street,  we  were, 
it  must  be  confessed,  glad  to  be  back  in  France.  It 
has  been  written  in  the  books  that  Bayonne  has  a 
Spanish  character.  However  this  may  be,  it  is  not 
noticed  by  the  traveler  just  out  of  Spain.  A  few 
Spanish  signs,  a  few  Spanish  tourists  in  the  hotels, 
and  the  Basque  dialect  of  the  inhabitants,  may  remind 
one  of  Spain ;  but  the  town  is  thoroughly  French  in 
its  appearance,  and  there  is  nothing  Spanish  about  the 
quick  movements  and  smartness  of  those  young 
women  seen  trooping  one  after  another  to  the  public 
pump  at  the  street  corner,  and  bearing  away  heavy 
jugs  of  clear  water  in  all  directions.  The  French 
women  are  certainly  admirable  in  their  thrift  and 
industry.  How  many  of  them  take  hold  of  business 
either  independently  or  with  their  husbands,  and  with 
what  success !  They  are  as  keen  as  two-edged  blades, 
and  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  parallel  in  any  other 
nation  for  the  practical  capacity  of  a  certain  class  of 
shop-keeping  females,  —  cashiers,  clerks,  saleswomen, 


Bayonne,  Biarritz,  and  Pau.  151 

landladies,  accountants,  etc., — who  are  everywhere  at 
\vork  in  France,  very  often  as  proprietors  even,  should- 
ering heavy  responsibilities,  and  putting  the  men  to  the 
blush  by  their  tact  and  energy.  There  is  nothing 
Spanish  about  yonder  passing  squad  of  red-trousered 
soldiers,  all  out  of  step,  marching  to  the  sound  of  a 
ringing  fanfare  of  bugles ;  for,  alas !  the  drum  has 
been  abolished  in  the  French  army.  There  is  nothing 
Spanish  about  the  waiter  flitting  in  and  out  of  the 
door  of  the  cafe  near  by,  with  his  long-handled  coffee- 
pot in  one  hand  and  the  other  ready  for  poiirboires ; 
he  wears  slippers  tied  with  ribbons,  a  short  black 
jacket,  and  a  long  white  apron,  and  never,  by  any 
chance,  is  there  any  headgear  covering  his  close-cut 
locks,  though  customers  will  sit  outdoors  on  days 
when  one  would  suppose  their  very  teeth  must  chatter. 
Bayonne  is  a  very  interesting  and  delightful  old 
town.  It  has  buildings  dating  from  the  sixth  century, 
yet  it  has  kept  pace  with  the  times  in  enterprise,  and 
is  to-day  commercially  prosperous.  Its  citadel  is  one 
of  Vauban's  famous  works.  In  a  little  valley  to  the 
north  of  it  lie  the  bones  of  many  Englishmen  who 
died  while  besieging  the  place  in  1814.  The  one  fact 
that  everybody  knows  about  Bayonne  is  that  bayonets 
originated  here.  The  city,  though  often  besieged,  has 
never  been  taken ;  and  it  refused  to  participate  in  the 
massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew.  The  small  River  Nive 
here  flows  into  the  broad  Adour,  which  is  spanned  by 
a  handsome  stone  bridge  and  empties  into  the  Bay 


152  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

of   Biscay   only    a   few  miles  below  the   town.     The 
Adour  at  this  point  is  a  nobly  picturesque  stream,  and 
below  Bayonne  the  banks  are  wooded  and  hilly,  so 
that  it  looks  like  several  American  rivers  that  might 
be   named.     The  shallows  near  the  mouth  are  great 
obstacles  to    the  commerce  of  the  town.      European 
rivers  are  so  often  mere  insignificant  creeks  in  com- 
parison with  the  great  rivers  in  the  United  States,  that 
I  always  relish  the  anecdote  of  the  Yankee  who  stood 
on  London  bridge,  and  said,  with  intense  scorn:  ''And 
this  dirty  creek  is  what  they  call  the  grand  old  Father 
Thames ! "       Bayonne    is   the    largest    town    of    the 
department     of    the    Basses    Pyrenees,    a    politically 
perverse  region,  whose  antecedents  are  of  the  greatest 
interest.      On    the    north    it   adjoins    Les   Landes,   a 
dreary  waste  of  sandy  country  where  Rosa  Bonheur 
found  her  picturesque  shepherds  on  stilts  and  made 
them  familiar  the  world  over.     The  department  was 
a  portion  of  the  ancient  realm  of  Beam  and  Navarre, 
prominent  in  history ;  and  a  part  of  it  is  included  in 
what   was  of  old   the    country  of  the   Basques,  that 
extraordinary  race  whose  origin  no  one  can  trace,  and 
whose    characteristics    are    said    to    survive    all    the 
mutations    of  wars,    conquests,    political    distinctions, 
and  social   innovations.      What  is  strange  about  the 
French  peasants  of  this  region  is  the  fact  that  they 
are  decidedly  Spanish  in  character  and  customs.     The 
Spaniards   of  the   other   side   of  the    mountains  are 
apparently  not  affected  by  French  influences.      It  is 


Bayonne,  Biarritz,  and  Pau.  153 

curious,  because  one  would  naturally  suppose  the 
weaker  people  must  be  the  more  susceptible  to 
foreign  influence.  The  French  built  all  the  railways 
in  Northern  Spain  and  are  introducing  business  in 
many  of  the  towns  there,  but  their  presence  does  not 
affect  the  unique  qualities  of  the  people.  The  Basques 
are  said  to  have  descended  straight  from  Adam,  — 
that  is  to  say,  straighter  than  the  rest  of  us,  —  but  it 
is  doubtful  if  they  have  any  more  of  the  old  Adam 
in  them  than  those  whose  lineage  is  more  obscure. 
From  this  famous  little  corner  of  Europe  came  Henry 
of  Navarre,  the  Bernadotte  family,  and  Orthes,  who 
was  prefect  when  Bayonne  refused  to  participate  in 
the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew.  The  peasants  still 
wear  on  their  heads  the  berets  of  dark-blue  stuff,  which 
somewhat  resemble  sailors'  hats  and  are  very7  useful 
as  well  as  becoming ;  and  the  rustic  women  who  toil 
in  the  fields  preserve  their  effective  and  picturesque 
bright-hued  costumes,  such  as  may  be  seen  excellently 
in  Julien  Dupre's  paintings.  This  department  includes, 
besides  Bayonne  and  Biarritz,  the  world-renowned 
mountain  resort  of  Pau,  and  the  less  widely  known 
watering-places  of  Eaux-Bonnes  and  Eaux-Chaudes 
away  up  in  the  mountains.  Lourdes,  the  locality  of 
the  grotto  famed  throughout  Catholic  Christendom  for 
the  miraculous  apparition  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  is  not 
far  away  in  the  neighboring  department  of  the  Upper 
Pyrenees,  which  contains  a  dozen  prominent  mountain 
resorts,  such  as  Bagneres  de  Bigorre  and  Bagneres  de 


154  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

Luchon,  the  future  rivals  of  the  most  favored  centres 
of  travel  in  Switzerland. 

Biarritz  was  made  a  fashionable  resort  by  the  caprice 
of  the  Empress  Eugenie,  who  was  fond  of  the  locality, 
but  it  is  not  a  superlatively  attractive  place.  A  good 
many  Spanish  go  there  to  get  cool  in  summer,  and 
a  good  many  English  go  there  to  get  warm  in  winter  ; 
but  as  it  is  rather  warm  in  summer  and  decidedly 
rainy  and  breezy  most  of  the  winter,  it  is  questionable 
if  either  class  of  habitues  meets  with  entire  success. 
The  hotels  are  enormous,  gaudy,  and  very  expensive, 
and  there  is,  of  course,  a  big  casino.  The  beach  is 
not  to  be  compared  for  a  moment  with  that  of  any 
first-class  American  seaside  resort.  But  the  water  has 
the  capacity  of  assuming  the  most  exquisitely  beautiful 
shades  of  green  and  blue  imaginable.  This  peculiarity 
of  the  Bay  of  Biscay  is  observed  all  along  the  coast, 
from  Arcachon  (a  very  swell  resort  farther  north,  only 
an  hour's  ride  from  Bordeaux)  down  to  the  Spanish 
watering-place  of  San  Sebastian,  memorable  for  having 
been  sacked  and  burned  by  the  English,  under 
Wellington,  in  1813.  Biarritz  is  mildly  interesting  to 
the  casual  visitor,  but  nothing  more ;  and  there  must 
always  hang  about  the  place  certain  unpleasant  associ- 
ations with  the  flashy  court  of  Napoleon  the  Little. 
Between  Biarritz  and  Bayonne,  which  are  only  five 
miles  apart,  there  is  not  only  the  main  line  of  railway 
but  also  a  narrow-gauge  road.  The  cars  are  furnished 
with  seats  on  top,  like  some  of  the  suburban  lines 


Bayonne,  Biarritz,  and  Pan.  155 

around  Paris.  There  is  also  a  fine  carriage-road,  lined 
with  handsome  villas  belonging  to  a  select  assortment 
of  counts,  marquises,  etc.,  not  omitting  that  sort  of 
"  self-made  man  "  who  adores  his  maker  —  the  French 
type  so  well  represented  by  the  immortal  M.  Poirier 
in  Augier's  comedy. 

The  low  country  immediately  north  of  the  Pyrenees 
is  uncommonly  beautiful  and  fertile.  From  Bayonne 
up  to  Pau  the  raihvay  goes  through  a  succession  of 
charming  scenes,  which  become  more  and  more 
diversified  and  interesting  as  the  train  nears  the 
ancient  capital  of  the  province,  following  along  almost 
the  entire  distance  the  rapid  stream  known  as  the 
Gave  de  Pau.  At  length,  on  the  right,  the  foothills 
of  the  Pyrenees  are  overtopped,  one  after  another, 
by  gigantic  snow-peaks,  which,  by  the  time  Pau  is 
reached,  form  an  almost  continuous  line  of  dazzling 
white  along  the  southern  horizon. 

No  one  who  has  visited  Pau  —  this  famous  winter 
resort  —  will  be  disposed  to  dispute  the  assertion  that 
it  is  one  of  the  most  favored  spots  in  the  world,  or 
to  deny  that  the  panorama  from  the  terrace  is  hardly 
to  be  equaled  in  Switzerland.  The  combination  of 
attractions  which  makes  Pau  what  it  is,  must  continue 
to  draw  increasing  numbers  of  visitors  there  every 
year.  Added  to  the  wonderfully  equable  climate,  it  is 
a  social  centre  of  no  ordinary  calibre,  possessing  all 
the  refinements  and  luxuries  of  an  old  and  thriving 
capital,  and  a  situation  which  for  picturesqueness  can- 


156  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

not  be  surpassed  by  any  place  similarly  accessible. 
The  hotels  are  superlatively  good — as  good  as  those 
of  Lucerne  or  Lausanne  ;  all  of  them  command  that 
glorious  view  to  the  southward  ;  and  at  present  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  obtain  accommodations  during 
the  season  at  prices  within  the  means  of  any  but  mil- 
lionaires. It  is  the  natural  centre  of  a  superb  region, 
a  smiling  country  of  verdure  and  constant  bloom.  For 
miles  along  the  macadamized  rural  highways  one  may 
pass  between  estates  which  vie  with  each  other  in 
elegance.  Juran9on,  the  principal  suburb,  which  lies 
just  across  the  river,  is  a  town  of  wealthy  grandees 
whose  villas  and  castles  dot  the  slopes  of  beautiful 
green  hills  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  The  city  itself 
has  thirty  thousand  inhabitants,  a  picture-gallery,  pub- 
lic library,  school  of  design,  theatre,  casino,  and  "  all 
the  improvements."  It  is  tremendously  gay  in  winter, 
if  there  can  be  said  to  be  any  winter,  and  in  the  modish 
crowd  not  a  few  English  and  Americans  are  found. 
In  the  old  quarters  of  the  town,  which  lies  high  and 
dry  on  a  platform  forty  metres  above  the  river,  there 
are  plenty  of  "bits"  which  would  delight  the  soul  of  an 
artist  ;  tall  old  houses  with  tiny  windows  and  quaint 
roofs,  all  jumbled  together  and  surmounted  by  a  forest 
of  comical  chimney-pots,  which  leaves  even  Edinburgh 
in  the  shade.  The  castle  of  Henry  IV,  on  the  brink 
of  the  plateau,  has  six  square  towers,  some  of  them 
nearly  covered  with  ivy,  and  fits  into  the  view  as  if  it 
had  grown  there.  The  wide  moat  which  formerly 


Bayonne,  Biarritz,  and  Pau.  157 

separated  it  from  the  town  is  now  an  alley  planted 
with  trees.  The  largest  tower,  named  after  Gaston 
Phebus,  was  used  as  a  prison  under  Louis  XIV. 
There  were  secret  cells  also  below  the  Montalizet 
tower,  — oubliettes.  What  a  significant  name  !  The 
chief  object  of  interest  in  the  castle  is  "  our  Henry's  " 
cradle,  a  tortoise-shell.  During  the  Reign  of  Terror 
the  people  wished  to  destroy  this  memorial  of  royalty. 
The  governor  of  the  castle  cunningly  substituted  a 
false  tortoise-shell  cradle  for  the  real  one,  and  the  citi- 
zens burned  the  counterfeit  with  just  as  much  joy.  * 
The  best  of  republicans  in  France  nowadays  are  too 
shrewd  to  destroy  any  objects  which  possess  historic 
interest  enough  to  attract  the  notice  of  tourists. 

Of  foreign  tourists  Pau  sees  comparatively  few,  but 
the  winter  population  includes  a  host  of  fashionable 
English  people,  who  have  here  their  own  libraries, 
clubs,  churches,  cemetery,  cricket,  polo,  and  lawn- 
tennis  grounds,  etc.  The  Museum  of  the  Infant  Don 
Sebastian  of  Bourbon  and  Braganza  contains  over 
seven  hundred  paintings,  among  which  there  are  two 
Titians,  five  Murillos,  six  Salvator  Rosas,  five  Goyas, 
six  Riberas,  two  Rubens,  two  Teniers,  and  one  each  of 
Velasquez,  Van  Dyck,  Rembrandt,  etc.  The  Museum 

*  "  Pendant  la  Terreur,  le  berceau  de  Henri  IV  fut  soustrait  a  la  rage  de  la  populace,  qui  avait 
envahi  le  chateau  pour  livrer  aux  flammes  les  objets  qtu  rappelaient  la  royaute.  Le  commandant 
du  chateau,  M.  d'Espalungue  d'Arros,  resolut  de  remplacer  le  berceau  du  grand  roi  par  une  cara- 
pace d'egale  grandeur,  que  M.  de  Beauregard  avait  dans  son  cabinet  d'histoire  naturelle.  Un 
homme  devoue,  le  sergent  Lamaignere,  gardien  du  chateau,  opera  cette  substitution.  Une  cara- 
pace ordinaire  fut  done  bruleesur  la  place  publique,  tandis  que  le  veritable  berceau  etait  transporte 
sous  la  toiture  de  la  maison  Beauregard,  ou  il  resta  cache,  pendant  plusieurs  annees."  —  Saget, 
Description,  du  Ckdteau  de  Pau,  1838. 


158  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

of  Pan  has  some  valuable  historical  works,  but  contains 
little  to  interest  the  passing  tourist. 

The  panorama  of  the  distant  mountains  is  a  source 
of  constant  surprise  and  pleasure,  for  with  every  vari- 
ation of  light,  with  every  change  in  the  disposition -of 
the  clouds,  from  morning  till  night,  it  is  undergoing 
the  most  marvelous  transformations.  It  seems  unreal ; 
you  sit  out  on  that  terrace  hour  after  hour,  and  try  to 
grasp  it,  to  realize  it,  but  it  is  useless.  At  your  feet 
the  shallow  stream  ripples  over  its  rocky  bed  ;  the 
straggling  town  of  Juran9on,  at  first  a  compact  mass, 
then  disintegrating  into  multitudes  of  detached  villas, 
lifting  their  slate  roofs  above  the  trees  from  among  their 
parks  and  lawns,  next  catches  the  eye ;  then  undulating 
meadows  lead  your  glance  onward  to  a  line  of  hills  — 
the  cbteaux  with  their  vineyards  ;  farther  yet,  and  a 
second,  higher  chain  of  wooded  hills,  in  the  blue  dis- 
tance, hazy  and  soft  in  outline  ;  and,  beyond  these,  the 
vast  towering  summits  of  the  snow-peaks,  now  hidden 
and  now  revealed  by  the  shifting  clouds  :  not  one  or 
two,  or  a  dozen  peaks,  but  scores  of  them,  rounded 
and  sharp,  low  and  high,  near  and  far,  an  unbroken  line 
of  gleaming  monarchs  from  east  to  west,  with  the 
magnificent  Pic  du  Midi  in  the  very  centre  of  the  chain, 
directly  in  front  of  you,  lording  it  over  all  the  rest. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

PAU    TO    EAUX-  BONNES. 

FORTY-FOUR      kilometres     away, 
among   those  lofty  mountains,  are 
the    two    rival     health    resorts    of 
Eaux-Bonnes  and   Eaux-Chaudes, 
whose   mineral    springs    are    highly  es- 
teemed by  wheezy  sufferers  from  catarrh, 
the    hoarse-voiced  victims   of   bronchial 
difficulties,  and  the  irritable  martyrs  to 
rheumatism.     To  pfo  to  either  of  these 

O 

places  it  was  necessary  to  take  the  daily 
diligence  from  Pau,  hire  a  private  con- 
veyance at  twenty-five  or  thirty  francs 
a  day,  or  —  best  of  all — to  take  to 
Shanks's  mare.  The  route  is  over  an 
excellent  national  road,  such  as  is  found 
only  in  Erance,  and  is  in  a  very  interesting  part  of  the 
mountain  region.  But  the  railway  was  (1881)  already 
in  process  of  construction,  and  the  entire  district  will 
soon  be  accessible  to  the  hordes  of  travelers  who 
don't  go  where  there  are  no  railroads,  and  the  sort  of 
creatures  who  consider  riding  up  the  Righi  or  Mount 
Washington  a  glorious  feat.  For  my  part  I  am 


160  Spanish   Ways  and  By-ways. 

always  glad  to  have  visited  such  isolated  and  grand 
regions  before  the  "iron  horse"  has  planted  his  cloven 
hoof  on  them. 

In  meandering  southward  from  Pan,  the  first  village 
of  consequence  that  we  passed  through  was  Gan,  a 
squalid  and  pent-up  town,  with  houses  of  immense 
antiquity  and  equally  great  filth  and  ugliness.  Then 
we  came  to  Rebenacq,  and  found  the  village  enjoying 
its  annual  fete.  It  was  a  scene  that  could  not  fail  to 
recall  to  mind  vividly  the  paintings  of  Dutch  village 
festivals  by  Teniers.  From  the  bench  where  we  sat, 
in  front  of  a  humble  cafe  situated  on  the  large  square, 
we  watched  the  young  men  and  women  dancing  in  the 
open  air.  The  three  musicians  who  composed  the 
orchestra  sat  in  chairs  placed  on  the  top  of  a  table,  and 
played  one  and  the  same  tune  over  and  over  again 
with  never-failing  gusto.  It  was  evidently  the  tune 
which  caused  the  death  of  the  ancient  bovine.  The 
dances  were  quadrilles,  and  they  had  a  certain  grace 
and  dignity  of  their  own.  At  the  conclusion  of  each 
set  the  men  "  turned  their  partners  "  most  vigorously, 
putting  both  hands  around  the  waist  and  then  lifting 
the  women  up  about  a  foot  into  the  air.  Some  of  the 
girls  were  very  pretty.  They  were  dressed  in  their 
best,  and  the  men  even  wore  "  biled  shirts,"  in  several 
instances.  The  enjoyment  of  all  hands  was  hearty. 
The  doors  of  the  church  stood  open,  and  occasionally 
a  party  of  the  convives  would  enter  and  go  through 
with  their  devotions.  Among  the  gayest  of  the  giddy 


Pau  to  Eaux- Bonnes.  161 

throng  were  a  lot  of  black  pigs  who  went  wandering 
about  the  square  and  afforded  amusement  to  the  chil- 
dren who  caressed  them  and  teased  them  alternately. 
The  old  people  sat  knitting,  drinking,  eating,  gossiping, 
and  looking  on,  in  the  shade  of  the  stone  barracks  at 
one  side  of  the  place.  A  few  steps  beyond  Rebenacq 
we  saw  the  wonderful  Oueil  du  Neez  (or  eye  of  the 
Neez),  which  is  a  refreshing  spectacle  of  a  hot  day ;  — 
it  is  the  river  gushing  out  from  its  subterranean  caverns 
into  the  light  of  day  and  flowing  down  to  give  its 
water-supply  to  Pau,  over  twenty  kilometres  distant; 
and  it  resembles  an  immense  spring  boiling  out  of  the 
wooded  hillside.  After  passing  through  two  or  three 
unimportant  villages,  the  traveler  shortly  pulls  up  at 
Louvie  for  lunch  and  a  rest.  This  place  is  just  at  the 
entrance  of  the  beautiful  valley  of  the  Ossau,  a  long, 
flat  farming  district,  entirely  shut  in  by  high  hills  and 
mountains,  a  little  world  by  itself,  with  some  seventeen 
villages  and  seven  thousand  inhabitants,  all  farmers, 
who  wear  the  old  costumes  and  "  run  things  "  on  the 
patriarchal  plan,  according  to  their  notions.  Louvie 
might  pass  as  a  fair  sample  of  a  Spanish  post-village. 
The  low  whitewashed  stone  tavern  is  built  around  a 
square  court,  paved  with  cobble-stones  and  redolent  of 
the  odors  of  the  stable,  and  from  a  canopied  interior 
balcony  running  around  this  hot  and  glaring  court 
come  the  voices  of  a  bevy  of  young  women,  ostensibly 
sewing,  but  really  flirting  with  the  drivers  and  travelers 
below.  Out  in  the  narrow,  dusty  street  is  a  group  of 


162 


SpanisJi   Ways  and  By -ways. 


hideous,  deformed  beggars,  who  catch  your  eye  when 
you  come  to  a  front  window  to  look  at  the  view,  and 
smile,  and  beckon,  and  hold  out  their  hats,  and  exhibit 
their  sores  —  all  in  full  sight  of  a  blue-and-white  sign 


which  says,  "  Mendicity  is  forbidden  in  this  Depart- 
ment." The  main  entrance  to  the  inn  is  through  a 
brick-floored  hallway  adjoining  the  kitchen,  where  a 
glimpse  of  the  fat  cook  mopping  his  perspiring  brow, 
and  enveloped  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  steam,  serves  to 
give  the  wayfarer  an  appetite  for  his  dejeuner.  Every- 
thing about  the  place  is  suggestive  of  heat,  dirt,  and 
hopeless  shiftlessness. 


Pau  to  Eaux- Bonnes. 


16 


Beginning   with    Louvie,  the   valley  of   the    Ossau 


kilometres    to    the 
all   sides  by 


m   on 


extends  southward  about  fifteen 
town  of  Laruns.  It  is  hemmed 
mountains,  and  the  scenery  all 
along  it  is  marvelously  fine. 
Queer  villages  are  seen  here  and 
there  nestling  high  up  on  the 
flanks  of  the  mountains.  Ruined 
castles  and  churches  crown  the 
summits  of  rocky  hills  rising  from 
the  broad,  flat  bottom  of  the 
valley.  At  Bielle,  the  ancient 
capital  of  the  district,  there  are 
several  ruins  of  Roman  con- 
structions and  some  famous  old 
fifteenth-century  houses.  Beyond 
Laruns,  which  is  the  largest  town 
in  the  valley,  and  whose  public 
square  we  immediately  recognized 
as  an  old  acquaintance,  the  high- 
way forks,  the  road  to  the  right 

going  to  Eaux-Chaudes,  and  that  to  the  left  going  to 
Eaux-Bonnes.  This  is  the  end  of  the  valley.  The  road 
to  Eaux-Bonnes  zigzags  up  a  long  and  steep  incline, 
entering  the  narrow  and  precipitous  valley  of  the 
Valentin  ;  and  before  long  the  weary  traveler  enters 
the  place  of  his  destination,  probably  shut  in  on  all 
sides  by  a  thick  curtain  of  clouds. 


164 


Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

EAUX- BONNES. 

EAUX-BONNES,  in  point  of  situation,  is  one  of  the 
most  delightfully  odd  places  in  the  world.  We  at 
once  named'  it  "  the  jumping-off  place,"  and  were 
rather  astonished,  when  the  fog  lifted,  to  find  that 
there  was  anything  beyond.  "  I  am  confident,"  said 
Hermano,  looking  about  the  room  with  the  radiant. air 
of  a  discoverer,  "that  we  have  at  last  found  a  place 
where  Americans  do  not  come.  We  are  probably  the 
first  Yankees  who  ever  found  their  way  into  this 
remote  and  unheard-of  corner  of  the  world."  As  he 
ceased  speaking  he  pulled  open  a  bureau  drawer,  and 
with  a  groan  of  discouragement  lifted  from  it  an  old, 
torn  copy  of  the  New  York  Herald ! 

The  village,  if  not  the  authentic  jumping-off  place 
of  our  youthful  dreams,  affords  abundant  opportunities 
for  saltatorial  suicides.  It  is  perched  on  a  narrow 
ledge  overhanging  a  deep  gorge,  and  can  never  grow 
much  larger  than  it  is  now  unless  some  new  devices 
in  the  way  of  aerial  dwellings  are  invented.  But  it 
has  its  public  square,  —  as  what  French  town  has  not  ? 
—  a  very  steep  little  park,  where  you  must  be  careful 
not  to  tumble  down,  for  you  might  roll  several  miles 


1 66  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

before  you  could  pick  yourself  up  again.  A  most 
industrious,  loud,  and  indefatigable  band  plays  during 
the  afternoon  and  evening,  and  from  the  half-dozen 
hotels  there  emerges  a  well-dressed  crowd  of  genteel 
invalids  to  take  the  air  and  enjoy  the  social  opportuni- 
ties at  hand.  About  ten  thousand  visitors  come  here 
every  year.  There  is  something  irresistibly  attractive 
about  mineral-waters  to  a  Frenchman,  and  if  one 
fancies  himself  an  invalid  nowadays,  all  he  thinks 
necessary  to  a  complete  restoration  of  health  is 
unlimited  guzzling  of,  and  bathing  in,  bad-tasting  and 
worse-smelling  spring  water.  The  "  establishment," 
as  the  big  building  where  the  water  is  dispensed  is 
called,  is  the  most  important  edifice  of  the  town. 

The  walks  about  the  neighborhood  are  full  of 
romance  and  attraction  ;  it  is  a  region  of  beautiful 
cascades.  Among  a  half-dozen  of  them,  quite  near 
the  village,  the  finest  is  the  Cascade  du  Gros  Hetre. 
An  American  is  apt  to  be  rather  scornful  concerning 
foreign  waterfalls,  but  there  is  no  humbug  about  this 
one ;  it  is  a  beauty.  The  tremendous  volume  of 
water  that  comes  thundering  down  some  sixty  feet 
into  a  deep  pool  almost  shakes  the  earth  round  about, 
and  casts  off  immense  clouds  of  spray,  which,  accumu- 
lating on  the  foliage  of  the  big  beech-tree  overhanging 
the  chasm,  drips  continually  in  a  gentle  shower  on 
the  moss-covered  rocks  and  into  the  seething  eddies 
of  the  stream  below.  Nothing  could  be  more  romantic 
than  the  Promenade  de  I'lmperatrice,  along  whose 


Eaux-  Bonnes.  1 6  7 

sinuosities  you  stroll  in  going  to  this  cascade.  It 
follows  the  left  flank  of  the  wild  and  deep  gorge 
through  which  the  Gave  du  Valentin  tumbles  and 
rumbles,  and  sings  and  roars,  and  leaps  from  shelf 
to  shelf  of  its  rocky  bed  on  its  way  to  the  peaceful 
valley  of  the  Ossau.  When  we  walked  there  the 
clouds  were  all  about  us,  and  the  woods  were  filled 
with  the  mysterious  yet  significant  voices  of  the 
unseen  waters.  Other  cascades  big  enough  to  be 
dignified  by  titles,  besides  the  Gros  Hetre,  are  the 
Serpent,  the  Discoo,  and  the  Eaux-Bonnes.  These 
are  all  on  the  same  stream,  which  is  but  a  succession 
of  waterfalls.  But  there  are  arduous  and  adventurous 
excursions  which  can  be  made  from  Eaux-Bonnes, 
which  is  a  resort  for  climbers  as  well  as  for  invalids, 
and  which  is  quite  a  centre  for  guides.  The  Pyrenean 
guides  are  not  reputed  to  be  very  skilful,  by  the  way, 
though  there  must  be  some  exceptions.  The  great 
excursion  from  this  point  is  to  the  Pic  de  Ger,  an 
ascent  \vhich  can  be  made  in  one  day  by  putting  in 
eight  or  ten  hours  of  good,  stiff  work.  The  view  is 
extensive  and  very  fine,  and  the  climb  is  not  so  dan- 
gerous as  it  is  tiresome.  However,  the  most  agreeable 
by  far  of  all  the  excursions,  and  that  affording  the  best 
views  at  the  least  expense  of  effort,  is  the  trip  from 
Eaux-Bonnes  to  Eaux-Chaudes  over  the  Gourzy,  an 
affair  of  only  three  or  four  hours,  on  foot  or  on  horse- 
back, with  or  without  guides.  The  Gourzy  is  a  high 
plateau  commanding  an  exceptionally  broad  panorama. 


1 68  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

Anybody  who  is  fond  of  going  down  hill  on  horseback 
may  adopt  that  method  of  locomotion  ;  but  for  this 
excursion  all  others  will  do  well  to  walk,  in  spite  of 
the  blandishments  of  the  guides,  who,  in  almost  every 
case,  own  horses  and  are  naturally  anxious  to  let  them. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

EAUX-CHAUDES. 

THE  French  guidebooks  of 
Adolphe  and  Paul  Joanne  are 
unsatisfactory  works  in  many  re- 
spects, and  that  to  the  Pyrenees 
is  no  exception,  yet  it  is  so  much 
better  than  nothing,  that  it  would 
be  an  error  to  travel  without  it. 
The  faculty  of  making  a  good 
guidebook  (which  is  a  sort  of 
sixth  sense,  like  that  of  "keeping 
an  hotel  ")  seems  to  belong  pre- 
eminently to  the  unrivaled  and 
immortal  Baedeker,  and  it  is  a 
great  pity  he  has  never  covered 
the  ground  which  includes  the 
Pyrenees.  A  tour  through  this 
region  must  be  planned  on  a 

different  principle  from  that  adopted  in  the  Alps,  owing 
to  the  peculiar  configuration  of  the  range.  Instead  of 
going  from  place  to  place  in  a  continuous  progress,  as 
can  be  done  in  Switzerland,  you  must  take  up  your 
headquarters  in  certain  centres  here  long  enough  to 


1 70  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

explore  the  surroundings,  for  railways  are  rare,  and 
good  diligence-roads  are  only  found  in  the  low,  broad 
valleys  on  the  French  side.  These  centres  are  as 
follows  :  Eaux- Bonnes,  Eaux-Chaudes,  Cauterets,  Luz, 
Bareges,  Bagneres  de  Bigorre,  Bagneres  de  Luchon, 
and  one  or  t\vo  minor  points  frequented  by  climbers, 
such  as  Aulus,  Ax,  and  Le  Vernet.  It  would  be 
stretching  a  point  to  say  that  the  scenery  rivals  that  of 
the  Alps,  which  for  grandeur  and  diversity  of  forms 
has  no  equal  anywhere,  and  never  can  have.  But  the 
Pyrenees  have  a  character  all  of  their  own,  and  are  all 
the  more  interesting  in  that  they  are  unlike  other 
mountains.  The  places  just  mentioned  as  centres  for 
mountain  excursions  are  almost  invariably  health 
resorts,  renowned  for  their  mineral-springs,  and  most 
of  them  are  situated  at  great  elevations,  remarkable 
for  picturesque  surroundings,  either  nestling  on  the 
borders  of  wild  and  romantic  gorges,  or  hemmed  in  on 
all  sides  by  huge  mountains  at  the  end  of  some  lateral 
valley.  The  place  in  the  Rhone  valley,  called  Leuker- 
bad,  in  German,  and  Loueche-les-bains,  in  French, — 
a  resort  which  has  been  "written  to  death," — is,  in 
respect  to  situation  as  well  as  character,  very  similar  to 
some  of  these  Pyrenean  villages.  It  must  be  said  to 
the  credit  of  the  Pyrenees,  that  if  they  have  no  such 
beautiful  lakes  as  there  are  in  Switzerland,  they  are 
equally  devoid  of  English  and  German  tourists. 

From  Eaux-Bonnes  the  traveler  naturally  turns  his 
steps    towards    Eaux-Chaudes,   only   nine    kilometres 


Eaux-  CJiaudes. 


171 


distant,  in  the  narrow  valley  of  the  Gave  d'Ossau. 
Descending  to  the  broad,  open  valley  of  the  Ossau  near 
Laruns,  the  road  to  the  left  is  taken,  and  immediately 
you  find  yourself  in  the  Gorge  du  Hourat,  one  of  the 


most  striking  defiles  in  the  region.  On  either  side  of 
the  stream  the  sheer  precipices  tower  to  a  height  of 
several  hundred  feet,  almost  shutting  out  the  light  of 
clay,  and  the  road  is  cut  in  the  rock  on  the  right  bank, 
forming  a  long  gallery  about  one  hundred  and  twenty 


172  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

feet  above  the  torrent.  At  one  point  a  bridge  spans 
the  raging  little  river,  and  here  a  pathway  leads  down 
to  the  water,  so  that  you  can  run  down  there  and  get 
the  effect  of  the  tremendous  twin  cliffs  from  below. 
Those  who  have  seen  the  Via  Mala  in  Switzerland  (or, 
as  A.  Ward  used  to  say,  "Those  of  you  who  have 
been  in  jail  ")  know  what  a  fascination  there  is  about 
such  places.  The  traces  of  an  old  road,  now  disused, 
are  seen  on  the  other  side  of  the  defile,  and  the  spot 
is  indicated  where  a  horse  and  carriage  and  beautiful 
young  lady  went  off  the  brink,  one  dark  night,  and 
plunged  into  the  abyss.  The  unfortunate  young 
woman's  name  escapes  me,  but  there  is  a  delicious 
story  about  her  disappointment  in  love,  or  something 
of  that  sort, — -which  I  have  also  forgotten,  —  always 
related  by  the  guides  in  a  touching  manner.  The 
trouble  is  that  each  guide  has  built  up  a  "  revised  ver- 
sion "  of  the  anecdote  to  suit  his  own  notions  of  the 
thrillingly  romantic.  If  the  truth  were  known,  it  may 
be  that  only  a  drunken  pedlar  and  his  donkey  fell  into 
the  gulf.  If  this  be  denounced  as  an  unworthy  suspi- 
cion, all  that  can  be  said  is  that  the  guides  ought  to 
organize  a  synod  and  agree  as  to  what  story  shall  be 
told  about  the  antecedents  and  title  of  the  beauteous 
victim 

It  was  raining  at  Eaux-Chaudes  when  the  elegant 
and  gentlemanly  landlord  of  the  principal  inn  said,  in 
what  he  flattered  himself  was  pure  English,  "  Good- 
morning  !  "  and  when  we  said,  in  what  we  knew  was 


Ea  ux-  Cha  udes .  173 

classic  French,  "Bong  joor  !  "  It  was  raining,  but 
the  water  was  not  warm.  The  morning  had  been  of 
that  tantalizing  sort  that  keeps  a  mountaineer  in  a 
state  of  indecision  as  to  his  programme.  It  rained  a' 
little  occasionally,  and  then  it  made  a  feint  of  clearing 
off,  the  clouds  rolled  up  higher  on  the  mountain  sides, 
and  opened  here  and  there,  exposing  a  suggestive 
patch  of  snow  in  about  the  place  where  the  zenith 
ought  to  be.  In  any  other  locality  than  the  mountains 
it  would  have  cleared  off.  Once  the  sun  came  out, 
and  a  rent  in  the  clouds  showed  us  a  whole  glittering 
pinnacle  of  ice  startlingly  near  us,  almost  overhead  ; 
but  in  ten  minutes  more  the  heavy  mist  came  rolling 
down  the  valley,  shutting  down  suddenly,  and  shortly 
followed  by  a  fresh  shower.  We  wanted  to  go  to  the 
Plateau,  beyond  Gabas  the  neighboring  settlement, 
and  the  last  town  in  France,  for  the  purpose  of 
obtaining  the  superb  view  of  the  Pic  du  Midi  to  be 
got  there  ;  and  every  one  who  has  been  in  the 
mountains  (or  in  jail)  can  appreciate  the  impatience 
with  which  we  stood  drumming  on  the  window-panes 
and  murmuring  gentle  imprecations  on  the  weather. 
There  were  no  other  guests  in  the  hotel,  if  I  remember 
aright,  and  the  usual  collection  of  torn  guidebooks, 
dogeared  Tauchnitz  editions  of  "  British "  authors 
(including  Fenimore  Cooper  and  Bret  Harte),  and 
one  or  two  French  novels,  formed  a  slim  capital  on 
which  to  beguile  any  great  amount  of  time  away. 
Consequently,  the  inevitable  resort  of  man  in  time 


174  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

of  ennui  (which  is  French)  was  taken,  and  we  ordered 
a  lunch.  The  dining-room  proved  to  be  a  remarkably 
amusing  place.  The  walls  were  decorated  with 
paintings,  almost  life-size,  of  the  Pic  du  Midi,  the 
Gorge  clu  Hourat,  the  cave  of  Eaux-Chaudes,  the 
Pic  de  Ger,  and  of  various  other  objects  of  interest 
in  the  neighborhood.  Such  works  of  art  were  never 
seen  surely  anywhere  else.  Such  color,  such  drawing, 
such  effects  of  perspective,  such  chiaroscuro !  If 
laughter  aids  digestion,  then  these  masterpieces  of 
local  genius  are  rightly  placed.  The  mute,  inglorious 
Michael  Angelo  of  the  village  saw  his  opportunity 
here,  and  grasped  the  skirts  of  happy  chance  to  some 
effect.  When  Eaux-Chaudes  is  dug  up  from  under 
the  debris  of  the  Pic  de  Ger,  in  2883,  the  future  man 
will  be  a  good  deal  more  astonished  than  any  of  the 
excavators  of  Pompeii  have  been. 

Eaux-Chaudes  is  almost  as  picturesque  in  point 
of  situation  as  Eaux-Bonnes.  It  lies  in  so  narrow 
a  gorge  that  there  is  just  room  for  the  single  street 
which  runs  along  one  side  of  the  Gave  d'Ossau.  The 
thermal  establishment  is  a  big  square  structure, 
utilizing  three  of  the  springs.  There  are  but  two 
hotels,  and  these  are  cheaper  than  any  of  the  half- 
dozen  at  Eaux-Bonnes,  for  the  visitors  here  are  fewer 
and  less  fashionable.  A  visit  to  the  cave  is  one  of 
the  first  duties  of  the  newly  arrived  traveler.  And 
he  may  rest  assured  that  it  is  well  worth  seeing. 
Leaving  the  village,  and  climbing  along  a  steep  bridle- 


Eaux-  CJiaudes. 


path  for  about  an  hour,  you  come  to  the  mouth  of  the 
cave,  where  you  stop  to  put  on  your  overcoat  and 
await  the  preparations  of 
the  fantastic  custodian 
who  lives  in  a  hut  at 
the  entrance.  This  wild- 
eyed  ogre,  who  insists 
on  taking  in  Bengal- 
lights  at  your  expense 
for  the  purpose  of  illu- 
minating the  interior 
properly,  salutes  you 
with  great  dignity  and 

looks  at  you  with  an  are-you-prepared-to-die  expres- 
sion, but  turns  out  to  be  harmless  and  rather  loqua- 
cious. He  unlocks  the  gate  (the  slats  make  the 
exterior  of  the  wonder  look  like  an  extemporized 
henhouse)  and  lights  a  big,  dripping  pine-knot  torch, 
\vhich  he  flourishes  about  as  he  leads  the  way  over  the 
slippery,  slimy  rocks  into  the  uncanny  hole.  Presently 
the  cave  narrows,  and  the  floor-space  becomes  con- 
tracted, so  that  before  long  you  find  yourself  trudging 
over  a  rapid  torrent  on  a  narrow  footbridge,  whose 
solitary  and  shaky  handrail  you  grasp  with  a  good  deal 
of  caution.  It  is  about  at  this  point  that  the  ogre, 
without  any  warning  whatsoever,  gives  an  unearthly 
whoop  to  show  off  the  echoes.  A  diabolical  chorus  of 
diminishing  howls  mocks  his  shout  and  mingles  with 
the  roar  of  the  furious  stream.  Then  the  ogre  fires  off 


1 76  Spanish  Ways  and  By-wciys. 

his  Bengal-fuses,  and  makes  visible  the  most  frightful 
scene  imaginable  —  a  world  of  rocky  and  watery 
desolation  which  appalls  the  imagination  and  makes 
one  thank  God  for  the  fresh  air  and  warmth  and 
sunlight  of  the  earth's  surface.  The  cave  is  four  hun- 
dred and  fifty  metres  deep,  and  is  closed  to  further 
exploration  by  a  subterranean  cascade  coming  from  a 
fissure  which  is  believed  to  communicate  with  a  plateau 
some  thousand  feet  above,  where  the  waters  from  the 
Pic  de  Ger  are  ingulfed.  In  walking  these  four  hundred 
and  fifty  metres,  you  cross  and  recross  the  stream 
about  eight  times,  and  there  must  be  a  good  deal  of 
danger,  for  there  is  nowhere  more  than  a  single  rail 
to  take  hold  of,  and  the  rotten  planks  on  which  you 
go  are  as  slippery  as  ice,  owing  to  the  accumulated 
moisture  and  slime.  The  man  who  falls  from  one 
of  these  bridges  may  as  well  give  up  making  any 
codicils  to  his  will,  for  the  rocks  are  crusted  thickly 
with  slime,  and  the  stream  has  depths  which  are 
treacherous  and  horrible  to  the  view.  Altogether  the 
cave  of  Eaux-Chaudes  is  a  frightful  as  well  as  a 
wonderful  place. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE    PLATEAU    OF    BIOUS-ARTIGUES. 

A   START  was  made  for   Gabas   as  soon    as  it  was 
thought  that  the  weather  would  permit  an  excursion  to 
the  Plateau   of  Bious-Artigues,  whence   that    famous 
view  of  the  Pic  du  Midi  d'Ossau  was  to  be  obtained. 
Gabas  is  eight  kilometres  beyond  Eaux-Chaudes,  to 
the  southward,  and  occupies  the  pent-up  extremity  of 
the  same  little  valley.      It  is  only  a  hamlet,  consisting 
of  an  inn  and  a  half-dozen  houses  or  so,  an  old  church, 
and  a  marble  quarry.    It  is  eleven  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  metres  above  the  sea  level,  and  is  the  point  of 
departure  for   several   arduous    mountain    excursions. 
Here    the    highway  comes    to   an   end,   and   a   rough 
mountain-road  winds  upward  through  an  elevated  and 
wild  pass  leading  over  to  Panticosa,  in  Spain.     It  was 
stated    that   a  walk  of   an    hour   and  a  half,  along  a 
bridle-path  which  follows  the  right  bank  of  the  Gave 
de  Bious,  would  bring  us  to  a  certain  sawmill  located 
on  the  Plateau  of  Bious-Artigues.     So  we  left  Gabas 
at  noon,  and  counted  on  employing  the  whole  after- 
noon in  a  delightful  excursion.      The  path  was  very 
plain  for  the  first  two  or  three  miles,  and  a  succession 
of  extremely  picturesque  views  made  the  way  seem  only 
too  short.     Unhappily  the  weather  was  as  fickle  as  it 


Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 


commonly  is  in 
the  mountains, 
and  everything 
was  soon  cloaked 
in  an  impenetra- 
ble mist.  After 
an  hour  and  a 
half  of  sturdy 
exercise,  the 
conviction  was 
gradually  forced 
upon  us  that  we 
had  lost  our  way. 
At  this  time  we 
were  crossing 
some  swampy 
uplands  where 
cattle  were  graz- 
ing, and,  having 
almost  lost  the 
faint  trail  several 
times,  we  were 
about  to  turn 
back,  when  we 
found  a  narrow 
corduroy  road 
leading  up  into 
the  woods.  This 


was  evidently  used  for  the  purpose  of  hauling  timber 


TJie  Plateaii  of  Bious-Artigues.  1 70 

down  from  the  mountains,  and  it  was  decided  that,  if 
followed,  it  must  lead  us  somewhere  ;  so  we  climbed 
for  an  hour,  silently  and  stubbornly.  It  was  a  most 
impressive  failure.  The  solitude  of  the  boundless 
forest  about  us,  and  the  ghostly  effect  of  the  swirling 
clouds  of  fog  among  the  tall  pines,  were  awesome. 
At  last  a  halt  was  called  in  a  little  clearing,  the  haver- 
sacks were  opened,  and  a  bit  of  bread  and  cheese  with 
a  draught  of  the  Juran9on  wine  was  discussed ;  while 
every  moment  the  fog  thickened  and  settled  lower. 
"A  little  farther!"  we  said,  and  with  useless  persist- 
ency we  pushed  on  upward  until  we  heard  ahead  of  us 
something  that  sounded  like  the  cry  of  a  child.  We 
halted  to  listen.  It  was  surely  a  child's  voice.  But 
how  came  a  child  up  here  ?  "  There  are  bears  in  these 
woods,"  suggested  my  mischievous  comrade,  in  a 
low  tone,  and  we  thought  of  the  panther  story  in 
Cooper's  "  Pioneers."  Nevertheless,  we  walked  on  a 
bit,  and  sure  enough  there  were  two  youngsters  playing 
in  front  of  a  woodchopper's  hut.  We  stopped  and 
asked  them  where  was  the  sawmill  of  Bious-Artigues  ; 
but  they  began  to  whimper  with  fear  at  the  sight  of 
two  strangers  coming  so  suddenly  out  of  the  mist. 
On  this  the  father,  a  rough  looking  specimen,  stuck 
his  head  out  of  the  door,  and  said  something  in  an 
incomprehensible  jargon.  The  question  being  re- 
peated, he  answered,  in  labored  French,  that  the 
plateau  was  lower  down  and  that  we  had  come  too 
far.  So  we  turned  back,  having  in  all  probability 


180  Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 

crossed  the  Spanish  frontier  after  passing  to  one  side 
of  Bious-Artigues  without  seeing  it.  We  made  good 
speed  down  the  corduroy  track,  but  not  remembering 
exactly  the  right  point  at  which  we  should  have  left 
it  and  turned  to  the  left,  we  finally  found  ourselves 
completely  at  a  loss  as  to  our  route,  in  the  midst  of 
the  thickest  and  coldest  of  fogs.  After  wandering 
about  a  while,  and  only  getting  still  more  confused, 
we  sat  down  on  a  log,  in  a  clearing,  and  enjoyed,  the 
romantic  consciousness  of  being  lost.  It  was  with 
more  disappointment  than  relief  that  I  received  Her- 
mano's  practical  suggestion  that  the  first  stream  we 
came  to  would  show  us  the  way  down  to  Gabas. 
Probably  at  that  moment  the  gigantic  Pic  du  Midi  was 
so  near,  that,  had  the  atmosphere  been  entirely  clear, 
we  should  have  had  to  throw  back  our  heads  and  look 
upward  to  see  the  great  fields  of  snow  around  its 
sharp  summit.  However,  we  were  destined  not  to  see 
it  that  day.  We  set  forth  again,  and  after  twenty 
minutes'  walking,  regained  the  bank  of  the  Gave  de 
Bious  and  followed  the  stream  downward  till  we 
struck  the  bridle-path.  Here  we  presently  met  two 
young  men  in  blouses,  who  halted  and  requested  a 
light  for  their  cigarettes,  perhaps  as  an  excuse  for  a 
little  conversation  in  a  patois  which  somewhat  resem- 
bles that  of  the  Canadian-French,  and  which  shows 
the  decided  influence  of  the  Spanish  in  several  ways, 
but  principally  in  the  pronunciation  of  the  vowels. 
"  You  do  not  fear  the  fog  ?  "  they  said. 


Tke  Plateau  of  Bious-Artigues.  181 

•'  Xo,  but  we  lost  our  way.  We  were  looking  for 
the  Plateau  of  Bious-Artigues." 

They  asked  us  what  route  we  had  taken,  and  told  us 
\vhere  we  had  gone  amiss. 

"  You  are  foreigners,"  one  of  them  said.  "  Are  you 
English  ?  " 

k<  No,  \ve  are  Americans." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  From  South  America  or  from  North 
America  ? " 

"  From  the  America  of  the  North." 

"  Ah,  that !   I  know  —  that  is  New  York  !  " 

''Yes,  that's  it." 

"  But  you  speak  English  there,  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  sort  of  English." 

"  And  as  to  politics,  how  is  it  in  your  country?" 

"  O,  we  are  all  republicans  there." 

"  Good.  I  would  like  to  go  to  New  York.  I  have 
a  cousin  who  is  in  your  country.  In  Buenos  Ayres." 

"  Buenos  Ayres.     But  "  — 

"  Is  not  that  city  very  near  your  department  ?" 

"Yes,  —  yes.  It  is  in  New  York,  in  fact.  But 
there  are  other  parts  of  the  America  of  the  North, 
beside.  We  have  other  large  departments  and  towns 
—  several." 

"  And  how  large  is  New  York  ?  " 

"  Not  so  large  as  Paris,  but  larger  than  Lyons." 

"  Sapristi  !     And  you  have  been  in  Paris  ?  " 

11 1  believe  well  !  " 

"  Ah,  there's  a  city,  eh?" 

"  By  blue  !  " 


182 


Spanish  Ways  and  By-ways. 


And  so  forth.  The  spokesman  had  been  in  Paris, 
and  it  was  his  pride  and  delight  to  tell  all  he  knew 
about  it.  We  talked  until  his  cigarette  was  smoked 
up,  and  then  parted  company,  all  hands  lifting  their 
hats,  and  saying,  "  Au  revoir,  eh  ?  "  For  the  Basques 
append  "eh?"  to  every  sentence. 

Bedraggled,  chilled,  hungry,  and  in  a  bad  temper, 
we  crawled  into  the  inn  at  Gabas  toward  night,  and 
partook  of  the  dubious  cheer  the  establishment  had  to 
offer.  Then,  in  the  rain  and  darkness,  we  pushed 
on  down  the  valley  to  Eaux-Chaudes,  where  we  had 
left  our  luggage.  The  next  day,  looking  over  our 
shoulders  as  we  made  our  way  down  the  hot  valley 
of  the  Ossau,  we  saw  the  Pic  du  Midi  looming  up  in 
the  bright  sunlight  and  blinking  at  us  in  the  most 
provoking  manner,  as  if  to  say:  — 

"  Yesterday  I  had  on  my  nightcap,  but  to-day,  if  you 
are  of  a  mind  to  come  back  as  far  as  the  Plateau  of 
Bious-Artigues,  I  am  ready  to  show  myself — unless 
I  change  my  mind  before  you  get  there." 


THE    CATALOG-TIE 


ART   DEPARTMENT 


NEW  ENGLAND  EXPOSITION, 


Is  the  most  magnificent  effort  yet  made  in  this  country  to  place 
before  the  public,  in  a  single,  compact  volume,  the  results  that  to  this 
date  have  been  reached  in  American  Art.  It  excels  all  catalogues  of 
Art  that  have  been  produced  either  in  this  country  or  in  Europe,  and 
is  designed  to  serve  many  other  purposes  than  the  one  that  was  the 
immediate  occasion  of  its  production.  It  was  planned  and  executed 
with  immense  pains,  and  absolutely  regardless  of  cost,  by  John  M. 
Little,  the  Chairman,  and  Frank  T.  Robinson,  the  Art  Director,  of  the 
Exposition,  solely  in  the  interests  of  the  Art  and  the  Art-industries 
of  this  country.  One  motive  pervades  the  whole  book,  aid  finds 
enthusiastic  expression  in  its  every  page;  namely,  to  produce  a 
work  which  for  practical  value  and  importance  should  be  attractive 
alike  to  artists,  designers,  photographers,  printers,  manufacturers, 
indeed  to  all  Avhose  professions  and  livelihoods  are  allied  with  Art 
and  Art-progress. 

It  is  a  large  quarto  of  300  pages,  printed  at  the  Art  Age  Press  of 
Arthur  B.  Turnure,  New  York,  who  has  succeeded  in  making  it,  in 
point  of  paper,  printing,  and  style,  an  ideal-instance  of  the  typog- 
raphy and  bibliopegy  of  the  nineteenth  century.  It  contains  G3 
full-page  illustrations,  all  of  which  have  been  judiciously  selected 
from  the  most  notable  works  of  the  best  American  artists;  and,  as 
produced  here,  are  intended  to  show  the  facilities  possessed  of 
artistic  illustration  and  the  effectiveness  of  reproductive  methods  in 
the  Art-world. 

ORIGINAL  ETCHINGS 

Of  surpassing  beauty  have  been  contributed  by  the  following  dis- 
tinguished artists,  as  well  as  by  others :  — 

Stephen  Parish,  J.  C.  Nicoll,  C.  H.  Ritchie, 

Thomas  Moran,  A.  H.  Bicknell,  William  Hart, 

C.  A.  Platt,  R.  C.  Miner,  J.  A.  8.  Monks, 

Charles  Volkmar,  George  L.  Brown, 

B.  Lander,  W.  F.  Lansil. 


FULL-PAGE   DRAWINGS 

Appear  by  these,  among  other  well-known  names:  — 


Carroll  Beckwith, 
R.  "Runner, 
Thomas  Robinson, 
C.  D.  Hunt, 
Bruce  Crane, 
K.  H.  Blashfield, 
R.  W.  Van  Boskerck, 
R.  M.  Shurtleff, 

Carl  Chapmnn, 
R.  H.  Burleigh, 
F.  Batchellor, 
W.  A.  Coffin, 
F.  Childe  Hassam, 
F.  M.  Boggs, 
(iranville  Perkins, 

J.  Wagner, 
C.  W.  Sanderson, 
E.  M.  Parmenter, 
Leo  Hunter, 
T.  Winthrop  Pierce, 
Julia  Dabney, 
H.  M.  Knowlton, 
Eleanor  Matlock. 

All  persons  interested  in  the  historical  development,  present 
position,  and  the  prospects  of  the  young  American  Art  School,  will 
find  unusually  instructive  and  opportune  the  series  of  papers  con 
tributed  by  the  ablest  living  specialists  in  knowledge  of  the  theories 
and  practice  of  Art;  Avhich  considered  in  their  entirety  may  be  said 
to  constitute  a  literature  on  Modern  Art  and  Modern  Art-tendencies. 

The   quality  and  interest  of  the  text  is  seen  from  a  glance  at  the 

SUBJECTS  AND  CONTRIBUTORS: 

Photography,  Edward  A.  Robinson. 

American  Art  Furniture,  A.  Curtis  Bond. 

The  Growth  of  American  Art,  James  Jackson  Jarves. 

J&ttrnalifm  and  Art,  M.  G.  Van  Rensselaer. 

Portrait  Painting,  Sidney  Dickeiison. 

Natire  Painters,  Charles  DeKay. 

American  Flon-er  Painters,  C.  VV heeler. 

Etchings,  S.  R.  Koehler. 

landscape  Art,  William  Howe  Downes. 

Watercolor  Painting,  Lyman  M.  Weeks. 

American  Wood  Engraving,  Arlo  Bates. 

Color  in  Works  of  Art,  R.  Riordan. 

The  Ideal  in  American  Art,  Florence  Finch. 

American  Art  Journalism,  James  I>.  Townsend. 

Success  in  Art,  F.  T.  Lent. 

The  Art  Tariff,  L.  C.  Knight. 

Memorial  Art,  E.  II.  Silsbee. 

What  shall  American  Artists  Paint  f   E.  II.  Clement. 

The  Present  Conditions  of  American  Art,  Arthur  B.  Turnure. 

American  Stained  Glass,  Edward  Dexvson. 

Women  as  Art  Critics,  Lillian  Whiting. 

The  book  has  been  produced  at  the  large  outlay  of  $12,000;  yet  it  is 
offered  to  the  public  for  the  comparatively  small  sum  of  $3  a  copy.  The 
Publishers  invite  early  and  close  examination  of  the  volume,  confident 
that  it  will  be  found  the  most  considerable  contribution  yet  made  to  the 
Art-literature  of  America,  and  of  inestimable  worth  to  all  who  are 
engaged  in  the  furtherance  of  aesthetic  culture,  or  in  the  pursuits  of 
Art,  whether  Design,  Painting,  Sculpture,  Decoration,  Photography, 
Criticism,  or  in  any  of  the  various  Art-manufactures  and  Art-industries 
rapidly  developing  amongst  us. 

The  Publishers  reserve  to  themselves  the  right  of  increasing  the 
price  after  a  certain  number  of  copies  have  been  sold. 

CUPPLES,  UP1IAM  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

283  Washington  Street,  BOSTON, 

V  Mailed  to  any  address  on  receipt  of  $3.2o,  postage  paid. 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH/ 

WITH   NOTICES    OF  HER  FATHER  AND  FRIENDS. 
BY  GRACE    A.  OLIVER. 

Illustrated  with  portraits  and  several  wood  engravings. 

Third  edition.    Svo.     i  vol.  571  pages,  price  $2.25.  Half  calf,  $5.00.  Tree  calf,  $7.50. 
*t*  Mailed  by  publishers,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  price. 

HTHIS  is  a  charming  record  of  the  literary  life,  educational  and  philanthropic  efforts, 
domestic  and  social  history,  contacts  and  friendships  of  one  of  the  most  remarka- 
ble women  that  have  ever  influenced  the  world  by  their  pen,  or  shone  in  society  by  their 
talents.  The  production  of  such  a  work  was  a  debt  that  society  owed  to  the  memory 
of  one  so  active  in  its  service,  and  though,  perhaps,  too  long  neglected,  it  is  fortu- 
nate that  at  last  it  has  been  executed  by  one  so  qualified  to  perform  the  task  by  pa- 
tient research,  wide  information,  and  large  culture.  That  this  great  woman  should 
have  found  in  another  woman  a  biographer  so  capable  and  admirable  is  a  very  grati- 
fying fact,  and  well  worth  the  long  waiting  for;  indeed,  it  almost  makes  us  wish  that 
every  supreme  instance  of  high  character,  literary  endeavor  and  excellence,  poetic 
and  imaginative  genius,  that  has  appeared  or  may  appear  from  time  to  time  amongst 
women,  might  have  the  like  good  fortune  to  find  a  Boswell  in  the  growing  sister- 
hood of  authors,  so  able  and  zealous  to  do  her  justice  and  honor,  as  the  biographer 
here  is  to  reveal  the  character  and  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  noble  woman  about 
whom  she  writes.  To  some  extent  it  must  always  remain  true,  that  a  woman's  mind 
and  genius  will  be  best  understood  and  interpreted  by  a  woman,  if  she  happen  to  be 
one  of  real  culture  and  fine  discernment;  of  thoroughly  independent  habits  of  mind, 
and  of  high  literary  qualifications.  The  author  of  this  book  has  a  real  genius  for 
biographical  writing,  but  she  has  not  trusted  to  that  genius,  when  only  the  labor  of 
hard  and  wearisome  research  could  avail  —  she  has  done  immense  reading,  and 
gathered  her  materials  from  many  mines  of  literary  wealth,  and  from  the  most  di- 
verse sources  of  information;  having  done  this,  her  imagination  has  illumed  it  all, 
and  her  genius  has  welded  it  into  a  consummate  biographical  unity.  Probably  no 
biography  of  this  century  has  been  more  conscientiously  written,  or  the  facts  more 
carefully  gathered  together  from  all  known  sources,  and  by  all  possible  means,  than 
in  this  instance.  It  seems  that  the  author  has  crowded  into  this  comparatively  small 
volume  a  lifetime  of  study;  that  she  has  travelled  over,  not  only  the  highways  of 
literature  during  the  period  covered  by  the  life  and  efforts  of  the  subject  other  hiog- 
raphy;  but  that  she  knows  equally  well  the  by-paths  and  the  shady  nooks  in  which 
grow  the  violets,  and  amidst  the  fragrance  the  best  thoughts  are  found.  And  no 
endeavor  has  been  wasted,  for  in  accuracy  and  general  interest  it  must  remain  amongst 
the  few  classics  of  biographical  literature,  at  once  a  memorial  to  the  life,  genius,  and 
character  of  MARIA  EDGEWORTH,  and  of  the  writer's  own  unique  biographical  gifts. 
The  subject,  too,  was  well  worthy  of  this  great  devotion,  for  in  her  own  particular 
sphere  she  is  supreme,  and  deserves  a  plact  in  the  memory  of  the  world  beside  that 
of  George  Sand,  Charlotte  Bronte,  Mrs.  Gaskell,  and  George  Eliot,  and  all  the  great 
women  who  are  celebrated  for  the  nobleness  of  their  lives,  and  the  power  and  beauty 
of  their  writings.  Her  tales  and  novels  have  exercised  great  influence  for  good  on  the 
manners  and  habits  of  society,  and  many  of  the  greatest  men  have  expressed  the  sense 
of  indebtedness  and  obligation  to  her.  The  chief  charms,  however,  of  the  book 
arise  not  from  its  showing  the  intellectual  development  and  literary  achievements 
of  a  noble  woman,  but  from  its  revealing  her  to  us,  in  the  real  beauty  and  great 
refinement  of  her  personality,  in  society  and  in  intercourse  and  correspondence  with 
her  friends,  amongst  whom  were  numbered  nearly  all  the  principal  persons  of  the 
time.  This  play  of  heart  and  imagination  in  the  common  relations  of  life  and  soci- 
ety, these  glimp'ses  and  anecdotes  of  notable  persons,  this  intellectual  contact  which, 
the  book  enables  us  to  come  into  with  the  poets,  novelists,  wits,  scholars,  philoso- 
phers, and  celebrities  of  a  former  generation  and  age,  is  one  of  the  richest  enjoy- 
ments, and  one  of  the  greatest  benefits  conferred  by  literature.  It  is  not  too  much  to- 
say  MARIA  EDGEWORTH  drew  towards  her  personality  the  mind  and  culture  of  her 
age,  and  that  from  reading  this  volume  we  become  as  "familiar  with  her  many  friends 
as  with  herself;  indeed,  it  is  written  with  such  power  and  realistic  touches  that  she 
and  they  become  our  own  familiar  companions,  and  we  move  in  their  world.  The 
portraits  and  illustrations  give  rare  attractiveness  to  the  volume. 


Cupples,  Uphain  &  Co.,  Publishers,  283  Washington  St.,  Boston, 


PRIEST  m  MAN;  or,  ABELAO  AID  HELOISA, 

AN  HISTORICAL  ROMANCE. 
BY   WILLIAM   WILBERFORCE  NEWTON. 

With  Fine  Illustrations,     i  vol.    i2mo.    Cloth,  elegant,  548  pages.    Price,  $1.50. 
***  Mailed  by  the  publishers,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  price. 

THIS  book  is  a  decidedly  important  addition  to  the  Fiction  of  America.  In  its 
beautiful  and  ;  jcurate  presentation  of  the  facts  that  encircle,  in  sadness  and 
tragedy,  the  lives  of  ABELARD  and  HELOISA,  it  is  never  likely  to  be  surpassed. 
Amongst  the  stories  of  the  immortal  loves  of  great  men  and  women^  it  exercises  a 
spell,  the  most  absorbing,  over  the  imagination,  and  fascinates  to  an  infinite  degree 
the  thoughts  and  heart  of  the  reader.  Truth  and  accuracy  are  never  sacrificed  to  the 
mere  glamour  of  the  novelist's  art,  and  yet  the  mind  is  carried  captive  with  each  sue 
cessive  stage  of  the  story's  development,  and  we  almost  lose  our  personality  in  the 
personalities  of  these  two  deathless  lovers.  Apart  from  this  book,  Dy  the  sheer  force 
of  their  passion  and  the  tragic  incidents  amidst  which  their  lives  were  passed,  by 
their  culture  and  the  important  positions  they  occupy  in  the  thought-life  oftheir  a°"e, 
by  their  letters  and  songs  that  immortalize  their  love,  both  characters  were  destined 
to  be  remembered  to  the  end  of  time  ;  but  the  idea  was  happy  in  the  extreme  that  led 
the  author  into  this  fruitful  field  of  effort,  and  to  produce  so  able  and  masterly  a 
work.  The  cases  are  few  in  which  an  author,  so  fortunate  in  his  cnoice  of  subject, 
.has,  with  the  aptness  and  real  imaginative  genius  here  displayed,  bent  his  purpose 
and  directed  his  labor  to  giving  it  such  noble  and  artistic  expression  ;  the  subject  is 


page 

insight  of  character  and  penetration  of  the  secrets  of  the  inner  life  of  mortals,  which 
is  the  peculiar  birthright  of  genius,  and  the  supreme  qualification  for  success  in  fiction 
and  all  imaginative  writing. 

The  writer  has  nobly  fulfilled  the  promise  of  the  Preface,  in  which  he  says  : 
"This  story  of  a  period  and  this  story  of  a  life  are  based  upon  the  well-known  out- 
lines of  history.  But  where  the  chroniclers  are  silent,  fancy  has  dictated  the  fiction 
of  the  hour.  The  passion  and  tragedy  of  such  a  story  are  not  the  invention  of  any 
writer;  they  are  the  strange  inheritances  of  human  nature."  In  short,  he  has  used 
his  art  just  where  he  should  have  done,  —  used  it  wisely  and  judiciously,  and  so 
achieved  fine  results  and  a  large  success.  He  has  laid  hold  and  given  eloquent 
utterance  to  that,  in  these  lives,  which  makes  them  of  enduring  attraction  and  uni- 
versal significance  in  the  history  of  the  world.  The  story  of  sin  and  passion,  the 
direful  fruits  of  love  in  humanity,  yet  withal,  the  only  ways  in  which  it  appears  often 
destined  by  the  will  of  the  gods  to  reach  its  redemption  and  ultimate  exaltation  and 
beatification,  is  a  subject  that  appeals  to  all,  —  it  appertains  to  men  and  women  every- 
where ;  it  touches  each  heart  and  appeals  to  its  sympathies,  and  thus  unites  the  whole 
world  to  those  who  rejoice,  suffer,  or  endure  in  it,  by  the  most  wonderful  of  all  elec- 
tive affinities.  Thus,  though  the  book  transports  us  into  another  land  and  a  far 
century,  we  nevertheless  are  rendered  quite  unconscious  of  it  from  the  mighty  force 
of  its  human  interest,  and  the  masterly  delineation  of  those  passions  that  make  up 
so  large  a  portion  of  the  life  of  the  world,  —  not  in  any  one  age  in  particular,  but  in 
all  ages;  and  in  none  more  than  the  present.  The  love  of  ABELARD  and  HELOISA 
unites  their  names  forever  in  one  joy,  sorrow,  supreme  affection,  and  undying  fame; 
and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  it  enshrines  them  forever  in  the  memory  of  the 
world  ;  unites  them  as  endunngly  to  humanity  as  they  are  united  to  themselves. 

Literary  ability,  imaginative  art,  and  the  creative  faculty  of  genius,  have  fulfilled 
their  task  so  well  that  the  book  deservedly  takes  its  place  amongst  the  highest  works 
of  fiction  of  this  period  of  our  literature  ;  and  may  confidently  be  said  to  be  one, 
not  only  of  the  most  entertaining,  but  instructive  of  novels,  picturing,  as  it  does  for 
us,  many  of  the  most  notable  characters,  incidents,  circumstances,  customs,  and  in- 
stitutions of  a  distant  age,  in  which  lived  and  loved  and  suffered  two  of  the  most 
fascinating  personages  in  all  history.  The  interest  of  the  book  is  greatly  increased  by 
a  fine  portrait  of  HELOISA,  and  by  several  beautiful  illustrations,  in  which  such 
prominent  facts  of  the  story  are  represented,  as  "  HELOISA  taking  the  Veil  at 
Argenteuil  ;  "  "ABELARD  surrounded  by  his  students  at  the  Paraclete;  "  "A  young 
monk  at  St.  Gildas  poisoned  by  a  cup  designed  for  ABELARD;"  and,  perhaps  the 
most  beautiful  and  pathetic  of  all,  "  HELOISA  at  the  Tomb  of  ABELARD."  No  book 
amongst  modern  novels  is  calculated  to  give  higher  pleasure,  or  at  one  and  the  same 
time  so  likely  to  inform  and  entertain  the  mind  of  the  reader. 


Cupples,  Upham  &  Co.,  Publishers,  283  Washington  St.,  Boston. 


THE  BUSINESS  MAN'S  ASSISTANT. 

i  vol.    i2mo.    130  pages.    Paper  covers,  50  cents;   or,  bound  in  Leatherette, 
Legal  Text-book  Style,  $1.00. 

*£*  Mailed  to  any  address,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  price. 

'PHIS  little  book  is  offered  to  the  public  from  the  conviction  that  it  will  be  found 
1  of  the  highest  value  and  convenience  in  commercial  and  trade  circles.  Its 
author,  I.  R.  BUTTS,  has  compressed  into  small  compass  an  immense  fund  of 
information  on  all  subjects  that  concern  the  business  man,  whether  he  be  mer- 
chant, mechanic,  or  farmer.  Many  books  have  been  published  bearing  this,  or  a 
similar  title,  which  have  been  most  inaccurate  where  they  promised  to  inform,  and 
altogether  unreliable  in  their  presentation  of  the  facts  and  recognized  data  of  the 
trade-world.  This  is  not  the  case  here ;  its  author  is  a  well-known  and  highly 
respected  authority,  and  his  "  Assistants,"  designed  in  the  interests  of  many  special 
professions  and  handicrafts,  enjoy  a  wide  popularity,  and  are  in  great  request  by 
those  for  whom  they  were  respectively  written.  The  scheme  here  is  somewhat 
different  from  that  of  his  other  books,  and  adopted  to  make  the  work  of  wider 
service  than  if  it  had  been  shaped  solely  for  the  benefit  of  such  as  belong  to  any  one 
particular  trade  or  profession  It  is  found  that  there  are  points  at  which  each 
business  touches  all  other  businesses,  and  each  profession  involves  some  acquaint- 
ance with  every  other  ;  the  aim,  therefore,  has  been  to  produce  a  work  that  shall, 
•while  rendering  the  utmost  aid  to  each  man  in  his  own  immediate  occupation,  still 
give  him  that  universal  information  about  Industry  and  Commerce  that  at  any 
moment  he  may  find  himself  needing ;  and  without  a  handbook  at  his  side  like  this, 
may  be  put  to  great  inconvenience, —  often  large  expense.  In  size  it  is  portable, 
and  suitable  for  the  bag  or  desk.  The  following  brief  outline  of  some  subjects 
treated  will  best  illustrate  its  office  and  worth :  — 

14.  (b}  Rules  of  Law  relating  to  same. 

15.  Releases,  Tenders,  Wills. 

(a)  Forms  of  respective  Releases. 

(b)  Tenders  for  Work. 

(c)  What  amounts  in  various  coins  are 

Legal  Tenders, 
(c/)  Forms  of  Will  and  Codicil. 

16.  Practical  Rules  and  Tables. 

(a)  Arithmetical,  Decimal,  Diagrams 

to  find  the  Square  or  Superfi- 
cial Feet  in  Boards,  Marble, 
Brick  Wall,  Land,  etc. 

(b)  To  find  Area  of  a  Circle. 

(c)  To    find   the    Solid    Contents    in 

Trees,  Timber,  Stones,  etc. 

(d)  To   find  Capacity  in  Gallons  of 

Tanks,  Reservoirs,  etc. 

(e)  To    find    Measures    of   Weights, 

Surfaces,  Capacity  (Dry  and 
Liquid),  Length,  etc. 

(f)  Decimal  Approximations  for  Fa- 

cilitating Calculations. 

17.  Lumber  Tables. 

18.  Ready  Reckoners. 

19.  Mechanics'  Tables. 

20.  Interest  and  Mercantile  Tables. 
(a)  Of  Interest,  etc. 

(b~)  Value  of  Gold  and  Silver  Coins, 
and  Foreign  Currencies. 

21.  Miscellaneous  Tables. 

(a)  Rates  of  Postage,  etc. 

(b)  Book-keeping,\vith  Directions  for 

Double  and  Single  Entry,  etc. 


1.  Laws  relating  to  Agent. 

2.  (a)  Forms  of  Agreement  and  Contract. 


(b)  Laws  regulating  same 

3.  Laws  regulating  Damages. 

4.  Forms  of  Assignment. 

5.  («)  Forms  of  Guarantees. 
(b~)  Laws  regulating  same. 

6.  (fl)  F'orms  of  Awards. 
(b)  The  Duty  of  Referees. 

7.  (a)  Forms  of  Bills  of  Sale  and  Bonds. 
(b)  Laws  regulating  Bond. 

8.  (a)  Forms  of  Deeds. 


(£)  Laws  regulating  same. 
9.    Forms  o 


s  of  Lease. 

10.  (a)  Forms  of  Mortgages. 
(b)  Laws  regulating  same. 

11.  Forms  of  Certificates. 

12.  (A)  Forms  of  Notice. 

(rt)  of  Intention  to  Build. 

(b)  of  Dissolution  of  Copartnership. 

(c)  to  Quit,  etc. 

(B)  Notes,  Due  Bills,  Receipts,  Bills 
of  Exchang-e,  Drafts,  Orders, 
Checks. 

(rt)  Judgment  Note,  with  Laws  reg- 
ulating same. 

(b)  Forms  of  Petitions. 

13.  Patent  Laws. 

(o)  Patent  Forms. 

(b)  New  Fees  of  Patent  Office. 

(c)  Directions  to  persons  having  busi- 

ness with  the  same. 

14.  (a)  Powers  of  Attorney. 


The  publishers  cordially  recommend  the  book  to  the  business  public. 

CUPPLES,  UPHAM  &  CO.,  No.  283  Washington  Street.,  Boston. 


AGENTS  WANTED  EVERYWHERE. 


ANNA  L/ETITIA  BARBAULD. 

A  MEMOIR, 

With  many  of  her  Letters,  together  with  a  selection  from  her  Poems  and  Prose 

Writings. 

BY  GRACE  A.  OLIVER. 

With  Portrait.    2  vols.    i2ino.    Cloth,  bevelled,  gilt  top.    Price,  $3.00. 

'T'HIS  is  a  book  of  great  interest  and  enduring  worth,  on  one  of  the  most  charming- 
1  characters  in  English  society  and  English  literature  during  the  fifty  years 
covered  by  the  last  quarter  of  the  preceding  and  the  first  of  the  present  century^ 
Belonging  to  the  Aikin  family,  many  members  of  which  were  so  singularly  accom- 
plished and  so  devoted  to  the  work  of  education  and  progress  in  days  when  those 
who  championed  these  causes  were  fewer  than  now,  it  is  gratifying  in  the  extreme 
to  have  so  accurate  and  highly  appreciative  a  work  as  this  to  put  into  the  hands  of 
those  whose  enthusiasm  and  energies  are,  in  these  days,  devoted  to  similar  ends, — 
to  have  so  full  and  beautiful  a  presentation  of  one  who  was  herself  actuated  by  the 
noblest  Spirit  of  Reform,  and  to  catch  glimpses,  as  we  do  throughout  these  pagesr 
of  many  similarly  inclined,  —  especially  delightful  to  be  brought  into  near  and  inti- 
mate contact  with  the  family  of  benefactors  and  reformers  to  which  she  belonged. 
Her  character  and  attainments  were  of  so  high  an  order  that  they  deserve  to  be  per- 
petuated, and  will  doubtlessly  be  perpetuated  by  this  book  when  many  of  her  writings- 
are  forgotten;  yet  there  are  amongst  these  selections  from  her  letters,  poems,  and 
prose-writings  not  a  few  gems  that  belong  to  the  very  choicest  things  in  our  litera- 
ture, than  which  it  were  hard  to  conceive  of  any  more  helpful  and  inspiring  tc* 
Young  England  of  that  or  of  this  day.  In  her  poetry  there  are  lines  that  bear  the 
impress  of  the  most  exalted  sentiments  and  profoundest  thought,  which  made  her  a 
peculiar  favorite  of  other  poets,  especially  of  Rogers.  It  was  Wordsworth  who,  on 
hearing  some  verses  of  hers  for  the  first  time,  said  :  "  It  is  not  often  I  envy  others 
the  honor  of  their  work,  but  I  should  like  to  have  written  those  lines."  The  author 
has  performed  her  task  with  consummate  skill  and  the  best  of  taste,  and  nowhere  is 
this  more  evident,  or  more  likely  to  win  praise,  than  in  the  many  passages  through- 
put the  book,  where  she,  with  true  grace  and  devotion,  stands  aside  that  the  one  who 
is  her  subject  may  herself  be  heard,  and  her  wisdom  and  poetry  fall  upon  our  ear  as- 
from  her  own  lips. 


LIVES   OF  THE    GREAT  AND    GOOD. 

With  Portrait,     i  vol.     izmo.     Cloth.     $1.00. 

STORY  OF  THEODORE  PARKER. 

BY  FRANCES  E.   COOKE. 
With  an  Introduction  by  GRACE  A.  OLIVER. 

A  MONGST  the  many  "lives"  of  THEODORE  PARKER,  no  one  deserves  to  be 
/\  wider  known  than  this,  and  where  it  is  known  it  must  be  appreciated.  The 
author,  an  English  lady,  has  given  us  in  a  form  more  compact  than  any  of  the  earlier 
lives,  a  graphic,  realistic,  and  living  picture  of  THEODORE  PARKER  as  child  in  the  old 
home,  boy  on  the  farm,  the  earnest  student,  the  patient  searcher  after  truth,  the  brave 
heretic,  the  heroic  preacher,  and  the  zealous  reformer;  and  everywhere  we  see  not 
only  the  outward,  but  the  inward  man,  a  life  ennobled  by  its  love  of  man  and  glorified 
by  its  love  of  God,  — a  character  transfigured  in  that  radiant  light  that  "  never  was- 
on  sea  or  land,"  —  a  spirit  resembling  the  Ideal  he  followed  in  the  storm  and  in  the 
calm,  in  the  arduous  enterprises  with  which  his  life  was  filled,  and  in  the  quiet  hour 
of  death.  It  needs  no  words  to  recommend  this  book  to  the  American  public,  whose 
highest  pride  it  must  ever  be  to  feel  that  PARKER  was  born  of  them,  flesh  of  their 
flesh  and  bone  of  their  bone,  and  that  the  forces  and  influences  of  his  great  person- 
ality still  rest  on  their  institutions  and  literature,  culture  and  religion;  and  when 
universally  it  is  felt,  as  Lord  Coleridge  said  of  him  in  Boston  lately,  that  here  is 
"  one  of  the  highest  and  greatest  souls." 

Mailed,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  price. 

Cupples,  Upham  &  Co.,  Publishers,  283  Washington  St.,  Boston* 


VC  37940 


M308188 


